Intellectually Correct
by Alex the Anachronistic
Summary: Post HP7. Hermione Granger FINALLY gets a clue. Severus Snape freaks and goes to America. A few laughs, a bit of angst, and lots of love. A lighthearted SSHG romantic murder mystery that reeks of blooming maturity, imperfection, and Sherlock Holmes.
1. On Ron

It sucks that I have to have a disclaimer. Ok. I don't own Harry Potter. I'm not j.k. (just kidding) about the fact that I'm not J.K. Rowling. I am not affiliated with Warner Bros. nor do I make any claim to be. Fan writing FAN fiction. Enough said.

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Intellectually Correct

Chapter 1: Oranges Don't Have Thorns

Hermione gazed avidly at Ronald's picture, willing herself to love him. Wanting for herself to love him. Waiting for herself to love him. Yet, for all her struggle, she could not love him in the same way that she had before that day.

After all, she reasoned, _who_ was Ron in the general scope of things? Of _what_ ingredients did he consist? _Where_ did Ron combine the articles that Hermione lusted for in a lover? _Whence_ did Ron come into importance beyond being the aide of the illustrious Harry Potter? _Why_ did she feel no more than a sensible obligation to adore him?

She applied her favorite system of analysis, listing five predominant question-words of the English language and creating a query based upon each. Her pen lay limp as she struggled for a _how _that did not seem redundant. She decided that, as it did not begin with a 'w', she would not deem it necessary for this activity of self-discovery.

Now to answer her own posed considerations, the parchment under her fingers passively interested in what she had to say. _Ron: a boy who absolutely worships me._ Hermione's ball-point pen (more practical than a quill, as she determined long ago) etched timorously, nervous at what conclusions might come to light in the next sentence. _Adores me to distraction, lives and breathes every waking moment about me, since_ . . . oh, she could not remember when she first saw the signs.

True, the youngest Weasley boy loved her more than he could love anything or anyone else. Vaguely, she remembered how he had once said something to the accord that he would give up Quidditch if she ever wanted it. From him, this was a lot, but as she had told him, she did not want him to do that. It would destroy a part of him that would encourage his passion to divert from her. Strange, though, that she should want his attention to leave her, as she had strived after it for so long.

She suddenly conjured a _how _question, very lovely. _How_ did she use to believe that she was completely consumed in love for him? It had hurt more than a vivisection to see him going about with Lavender Brown. However, she saw now, all that had been mere puppy love. Now she set about imagining it, she found a scene of domestication involving herself as a Weasley rather farfetched and amusing. A vivid image of the situation clouded her mind.

_Ronald sits at the couch, cheering for his favorite Muggle sport of cricket as it blasts from the widescreen telly in the living-room. A foaming, cold glass of amber liquid settles on top of his steadily rising paunch, and every once in a while, the beer splashes over the rim to stain one of his many 'at-home' shirts. Hermione stands in the kitchen, still dressed in the suit she had worn to the office, though she protects it by a hastily-tied vinyl apron. She is sidetracked from making supper by the prospect of a new revelation for one of her many potions experiments. _

_"Ron, give me a hand, will you? This vial is going to overflow if I don't get someone to stir it constantly." _

_"Just a minute," replies his throaty voice, which had suddenly become surprisingly gravelly by his fortieth birthday. _

_Five minutes later, his snores reach her ears, and she sighs. _

Here Hermione had to stop. It maddened and sickened her, because she remembered conversations quite similarly pointless and disengaging. He argued as though only for the sake of seeing her get quite frustrated with him. Yet he debated with perfect seriousness, though he lacked method and logical comprehension.

Conclusively, despite the fact that he was physically 'cute', with his luscious red hair and china freckled skin, she knew he could never see things from an intellectual standpoint. This bothered her tremendously. His incompetence was his only challenge, she saw, and, to be strictly honest, she realized a life constantly exposed to that would result in her intense boredom.

She remembered one of the heroes of her youth, Sherlock Holmes, and how his relationship with Watson resembled that of hers with Ron. Holmes called Watson his 'Boswell', in allusion to a famous scientist's favorite bumbling co-worker. Watson played the part of a regular, rather ordinary educated man who merely exemplified Holmes' genius. Sometimes, he did this with much unneeded exaggeration, expressing disbelief and astonishment at every worthy comment made by his friend. Watson adds practically nothing to the duo, only hanging about to support Holmes when the great detective occasionally has a lapse of strength.

Of course, there were some moments while she was with Ron that Hermione definitely felt that she was head-over-heels in love with him all over again, despite his lack of _brains_ and obstinate _idiocy_. But, when she truly reflected, Hermione knew that it was her own folly to feel anything for her friend, and came to the conclusion that she did not indeed have any non-platonic love for him.

She knew she had been a fool last winter when he left so suddenly, but now she realized how impossible it all was. Why were not Watson and Holmes gay for each other? They were not romantically compatible, and they knew this fairly well. Wisely, Watson got married about five times over the course of his life, so they never had any trouble on that point of their relationship.

Seeing herself allegorically made things much more clear. Hermione felt seized with despair. She had kissed Ron during the last battle: kissed him as though she never wanted to part from him; kissed him as though she wanted to marry him and have children with him; kissed him as though her soul's sustenance depended on his being there for her. She had cried for him last winter: cried as though the end of the world had come; cried for the mere sake of his rejection; cried for his abandoning her. She had hated him for Lavender: hated him for ignoring her; hated the fact that, though unconsciously, he had realized the purpose of her little game with Krum; hated that he was making her pay.

But now . . . now all emotion for him had evaporated. Sometime in the past week, she had dramatically changed. The end she had intended to achieve for all her life (or, rather, the past few years) was attainable. But now . . . now she did not want it.

What _did_ she want? Oh, but she scarcely dared to even think about it. A _dead_ man was the subject of her fierce affection. Oh yes, a man she might have saved. It was he, and he alone, who domineered her dreams nowadays.

She had watched him die, and die in agony: a good man, a martyr who had devoted his life to protecting the memory of a woman he had loved, to selflessly protecting Hermione and her dearest friends, to saving the wizarding world from the peril of a wicked tyrant. He had been a dark knight, a secret crusader, a tall-dark-and-handsome who fought courageously for the sake of goodness.

True, he had been bitter, brittle, and abrasive. But in hindsight, in retrospect, his snarls were clearly a response to all the stress he was under and an obvious way of making sure that he appeared to hate everybody. Some of his comments were actually endearing. "I see no difference" was what he'd said about her teeth-how ridiculous! Of course he was just pretending to be cruel. That was his role. He was supposed to appear the vilest of Death Eaters. If she'd known him in any other context, if he'd just been living a quiet, happy life, he would never have been so nasty. She knew this in her heart of hearts.

The image of him, barely wakeful in a pool of his own blood, burned in her consciousness with guilt and shame. She had not acted for him, had not protected him, had not preserved him.

Now she paid, with a fiery, unkempt, raucous love that (as far as she could remember) she had never experienced for Ron. Even after she saw Ron's naked body for the first time (accidentally, when she walked in on her friend after his shower once), she never had felt such a dreadful desire, such a ravenous lust, such an enduringly horrific emotion.

While it would be clear to any objective observer that she had merely focused her romantic obsession upon another target, Hermione, in the fashion of many (if not all) teenage girls, thought it was progressive emotion rather than transplanted.

To her obvious dismay, she had fallen in love (or so she thought) just a few days too late. Severus Snape had died by the time she came to know of any feelings for him.

She could not presume on either of her male friends (for obvious reasons) nor Ginny. Everyone somewhat expected her to at least become enjoined with Ron rather soon as a token of their advanced relationship. Which, Hermione saw, had not really advanced on her part, but on Ron's. She did not want him. She had no desire to 'advance' her own chess piece one step closer to taking his king. She did not want to even win the proverbial game with him any more, for now she saw the end in sight, the idea of finishing bored her.

No. Hermione had let the only man in existence with the capability to stimulate her as much as she desired die before her own eyes. The thought made her want to call it a day, and slit her own throat, in poignant imitation of his own death.

Oh, _now _she missed the salaciously delicious voice of her old potions master. _Now_ she relished the idea of visiting the Hogwarts dungeons, though the suggestion also repulsed her. _Now _she knew a hundred different ways she might have saved him from dying of Nagini's bite. _Now _she felt a keen interest in going up and snogging him senseless, whether he would curse her afterwards or not.

Admittedly, though, she _had _always enjoyed potions a great deal, though she dared not confess such a thing to Ron or Harry. She fully intended to keep up with the subject for the rest of her life. Who introduced it to her? Him, who she did not save when she might have, so easily.

The ceiling of her room—the one she had grown up in—seemed drab yet secure. It was desensitizing, yet stifling. A dénouement, yet a starting. _Oh, but I am thinking nonsense_ she decreed. She glared haughtily at the ceiling lamp, the appliance turned off though the shadows lengthened outside the window.

_Fall back into daydreaming_, she mused, _It is not often that you can do this. Think of that hideously dignified nose. Those obsidian eyes. That keen intelligence and sarcastic wit that so appealed to you. Remember what he wore to the Yule Ball? Such elegance you _had _to notice, even when your eyes ostensibly were glued upon that silly Krum and, covertly, that other stupid Quidditch player who wants to sleep in your bed right now. He had a certain endearing egotistical streak, similar to that present in Holmes. It just was beaten down so much, by the people who treated him ill and who abused his loyalty, that it was barely present in his life. A sad thing, really. He was a great man, and if he had more faith in himself, he might have been even greater. _

Hermione spent time reading-up on her teachers, since she knew that Muggle college professors usually publish at least a few books in their lifetimes, so she assumed that her Hogwarts instructors did also. Snape had an amazing amount of literature out on the market, to her great delight. Certain compositions on specialized potions research, yes, along with a few articles in potions journals worldwide on the varying effects of different ingredients and substitutions. She found not only these, though, but detailed compositions on the usage of the dark arts, some literary analysis on various wizard works in comparison to Muggle authors such as Dickens and Dostoyevsky, and even a thin pamphlet on the advantages of philosophic pessimism. Every word was spiked with a certain talent and charm prevalent in no other academic works Hermione ever read, a sort of combination between Edgar Allen Poe, Mark Twain, and Shakespeare. He was evidentially well-read and quite well-versed in many topics, and even had a short treatise condemning some of Voltaire's theories in favor of d'Holbach's written in _French_. Of all the languages of the world Hermione adored, it was French. His prolific writings astounded and bewildered her, extending her mind and even inspired her to write a few lengthy (as of yet unpublished) essays in criticism and praise of various aspects he presented. She felt that she knew his mind so thoroughly that she wondered why she had not before considered him as a potential candidate in love.

The age difference. Of course. She, at age eighteen this year (nineteen if counting the time using the time-turner) looked and felt his junior, him thirty-eight by her own calculations. Yet, twenty years was not so great a difference, if one took into account the level of her own mental acumen and maturity of Hermione's brain.

However, she sadly recalled, Snape was in love with Lily when he died. Still, so in love that his last request was to see Harry's eyes—the split image of his mother's, so everyone said. They must have been, if her unrequited lover wanted them to be the last thing he saw in this life. Hermione, though, with the passion that all one-sided lovers declare, _knew _she could get him to at least trust her enough for shagging, or maybe even a reasonable relationship. If he were living now, she resolved, like the great brave Gryffindor she was, that she would go up to him and absolve her mind of this guilty hiding of her emotions. She would tell him she loved him unconditionally. He might laugh at this, he might cry at this, but, either way, he should know.

All this speculation, she remembered angrily, was fruitless. Snape was dead, never to return. Not that she could do anything about it now!

Somewhere downstairs, the doorbell rang. Hermione paid no attention, instead thrusting her head into her lone pillow and sobbing uncontrollably. It was probably Ron anyways; he had come to call every day since the great battle at Hogwarts, never missing once. Hermione could do without seeing his visage at this moment in time.

Time passed. Ages. Eternities. Hermione lay on her bed, prostrate and unfeeling. Her CD player played something rancorous and buoyant, the exact opposite of her current fluctuating emotions. Madonna, maybe? The Granger girl knew virtually nothing about music, compared to her parents.

Her parents. She had just gotten them back from Australia a few days ago, restoring their memories from those of Wendell and Monica Wilkins and bringing them back to the lives of Dr. Oliver and Augustina Granger. To make sure they had not come to prefer their childless life in Australia, she had Obliviated them as soon as she found them. It was merely a matter of hiding the more recent memories and bringing back the old, hidden ones. While a difficult process, it had paid off, and now her life felt like it was exactly back to normal.

Her parents, when they _were _her parents, were excellent role models for her future. She wanted to be just like them, in the words of the little cliché so often endowed by three-year-olds.

Father: short, impossibly lean, frizzled yet quite abundant graying hair, a ratchet-like face, wizened and twisted beyond his years . . . but with absolutely the most perfect smile in existence. Witty, bright, and of a scientific mind, he encouraged Hermione's academic awareness and love for learning, also the one who passed on to her his allele for genius. A natural charmer, though he could only look at his wife with a fire and passion that, by right, should not exist on this earth. No man was more ecstatic than he while his arms ensconced his wife. He had only one vice, that of sometimes going to the pub and having a bit too much to drink, but he was the sort who got very silly as opposed to violent, and thus he was easy to deal with once he teetered home.

Mother: taller than Father, a bit more curvy than was generally acceptable in the day's society but not overweight, lovely flowing brown hair, and a quick tongue that often emerged from her pearly, well-kempt teeth. She was of a similarly intelligent mind, and though in IQ was sometimes outshone by her husband and daughter, she made up for her barely lesser intellectualism with a tremendous output of creativity. A hard, industrious worker with a gentle spirit and impeccable tact, she mastered all subjects; writing, painting, sculpting, costume designing, photography, cooking, and music were extended beyond words under her guidance and capability. At times she had trouble pronouncing words, for, like Hermione, no one had taught her reading and therefore she knew virtually naught of phonetics, but her vocabulary was extensive and broad, and her knowledge of Muggle history was the best in England, or so people described it. Her devotion to her husband seemed minimal in public, but, when at home, anyone could see her true fire and adoration for him.

Both parents, Hermione realized, were intelligent, talented, well-bred individuals who cared very much for their professions in teeth, and each other. Neither had any major advantages over the other that were not balanced. Overall, she saw that even though sometimes the couple bickered, their arguments were well-founded and established, and not usually over petty things. Hermione felt a great love for both her parents, and knew that they loved each other as well, and she wished to emulate them in her own marriage someday. This would not happen if she married Ron, this was clear.

A timid footfall came upon the stair, creaking the thirty-year-old floorboards respectfully. Hermione's head rose, and her eyes involuntarily blinked away the thick tears that had collected on her lashes. The step was not Ron's, who usually bounced up two at a time, without the grace and elegance prominent in the steps she heard now. It was not her father; he swaggered up as though he owned the place (which, of course he did). It was not her mother's; she would have just returned from work at this time and not exchanged her high heels for more comfortable brogues yet. Indeed, the perpetrator of the steps intrigued her and puzzled her. A thief, perhaps? But no, though the evening settled rather soon, it was still too bright out for someone to chance such a thing. Besides, the car was in the driveway, she could see from the window, so her parents must be home by now.

A curt knock interrupted her musings. Apparently, even the thief idea was irrelevant. Hermione rose from the bed, straightening her very messy hair and drawing a bathrobe over her skimpy summer pyjamas.

"Coming, coming."

Her hand twisted the knob as she brushed a lock of stray curl out of her face. Then, as she saw who was there, she gasped and fell. Two familiar, sinewy hands caught her arms.

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_Do review. This story may be rubbish, but it's rather entertaining rubbish. _


	2. On Snape

_It sucks that I have to have a disclaimer. Ok. I don't own Harry Potter. I'm not j.k. (just kidding) about the fact that I'm not J.K. Rowling. I am not affiliated with Warner Bros. nor do I make any claim to be. Fan writing FAN fiction. Enough said._

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**Chapter 2**

The two arms prevailed in the duel between the pair and gravity. From the vantage of their support, Hermione seemed to see her current not-so-accepted beaux's eyes peering gently down at her.

"Ron! You quite well startled me! I really believed for an instant that you _were _our late lamented professor!"

She naturally expected his confident hands to ease her to a level state once more, for him to ask if she might forgive him, his excuse being that Fred and George had devised a new tool for costumes and demanded that he try it out on her, etc. Hence, her surprise when the figure that held her in his arms let these apparatus fall in haste, and proceeded to drop her upon the hardwood floor.

"Ow!"

Fortunately, the solid oak boards had attained some amount of dingy carpeting from when Hermione still wore diapers, so the teenager found herself grateful to the shabby dust-scented tresses for preventing a skull fracture.

"Apparently, Miss Granger, the amount of brain cells you might have lost with that impact are not the only ones that disappeared since we last met. I find that highly disappointing at the very least."

The sulpheric, rather petulant tones of Severus Snape cut the air. Hermione's innards went wild. Whence came this apparition? Why did he look so . . . real?

Immune to the excited stare that came into his student's musky eyes, those still scorched red from saline and rubbing, Snape acerbically continued. "In all actuality, I was also unimpressed with the fact that you did not meddle in attempting to defy nature at the last time we encountered each other. I expected, upon your appearance, to at least _try _to encumber my plans with your brilliance."

Only Severus Snape could twist a compliment to her intellect into an insult. Hermione knew this _had to be him_. But how? She had, herself, watched him succumb to the only force more irreversible on earth than gravity.

"You are Severus, aren't you." She posed this question with a particular lilt at the end, which indicated a statement.

"Astounding induction, my dear Watson," spat Snape gravely, "only you will kindly refrain from addressing me as 'Severus' in the coming future. Until you graduate, it shall always be 'professor', and beyond with no less formality than 'Snape.' Few people are permitted such a show of closeness without my intentional boxing of their ears."

Hermione began to laugh with unreasonable zeal.

"May I ask what you find so amusing? The image of an unquestionably unathletic person as myself in nothing but trunks and a hideous pair of red gloves, literally laying waste to some unsuspecting soul's sensory receptors?" Snape grimaced unconsciously, not thinking the picture a lark no matter how he modified it.

The pedagogue at his heels, having not risen to her feet again, remained in insatiable stitches.

"Or is it my misquotation of Conan Doyle?" Snape began a tirade. "I assure you, I do so intentionally—the man wrote of the 'process of deduction' when it is, rather, the 'process of _induction_'. To deduct something is to take away from it. That is not what Holmes did, his method of gathering evidence and contriving at some theory that linked each piece together. No, Holmes _inducted _information from various clues, not deducted."

"No, indeed, I knew about that," protested Hermione, indignant even as she gasped for breath, "Just the fact that this is all so very sudden, and the fact that I was just thinking about y--no, I mean Sherlock Holmes and Watson just a bit ago!"

A bit of digesting this point occurred on the part of the man in her doorway. "Ironic, perhaps, but not enough to warrant such a barrage of your braying, surely?"

Oh! So now she was no more than an _ass_, was she?

"I declare! I do not _bray!_" Hermione gave a savage look of admonition.

"Hardly _not_. Your point is invalid," countered Snape, and the pair glared at each other.

Oh, but even while she displayed such animosity towards him, oh how she burned for him! How attractive his lean, yet not so un-muscular frame his deterring eyes, his garish nose! She dared a glance a bit lower than his waist, in hopes that she might also arouse him at this moment, but all seemed well and perfectly composed. With almost a sigh of regret, Hermione decided to began an inquisition for some answers.

"So," she sniffed, "Why do you appear here before me, in my parents' Muggle home, when last I saw you dead on the floor of the god-forsaken shack of Hogsemede?"

"Now this is a question I ought to have thought you had satisfactorily concluded by now." Snape frowned, almost seeming upset that his most intelligent student could not understand the conundrum. "However, if I must explain . . . do you really believe I was foolish enough to not anticipate the Dark Lord's use of his wretched snake upon myself when he discovered my treachery to him? Rather not. Now if you still cannot guess . . ." he added, noting the disconcerted visage of Hermione's face, "Let me provide a 'hint' as you children would call it."

He moved with a suave motion, though she heard his brittle knees crack audibly, as he bent to her level. "_Would you care to remember the vial you found _so _conveniently when Potter needed it to capture my 'last thoughts'?_"

So the light came into Granger's eyes. "Of course. So you're the one who pinched the Drought of Living Death from Slughorn."

"Exactly." Snape nevertheless appeared less than gratified at her revelation.

"So. Tell me. What happened after . . . well, you know. How did you get back out of such an enchantment?"

Snape suddenly found the ceiling very interesting, for his devastatingly dark pupils floated straight to the tops of his eyes. This revealed the rest of his sclera to be a ghastly sallow color with evidence of intermittent bloodshot.

"Oh. Well, the obvious course of action was to be sure someone would know. I made prior arrangements that my only immediate kin—a squib, sadly, who dove headfirst into the Muggle world—should bury me in the event of my death, not cremate me, lest I be under the Drought instead of having actually passed from this world. At least the illustrious Harry Potter thought it better not to intervene with that!" At this point, Snape seemed to have lost annoyance in the topic and almost appeared to enjoy relating his genius way of engineering death and resurrection.

"In any case, thus ensured that I would not be burnt alive, I left a note in one of my least inconspicuous desk drawers, for the perusal of the first man to rifle through my articles of possession. Which, amazingly, was found much more quickly than I imagined. I predicted the earliest I would return was after a year, more or less depending on my method of 'dying' and how it might spike the general interest of others. A month is much sooner than I hoped, and I am not entirely sure if I am grateful."

Hermione gazed avidly at him, fascinated with more than sexual lust. She wanted his mind, his partnership, his argumentation skills and verbal eloquence. She wanted, in essence, his genius; though along with his bodily apparels, certainly.

"You . . . enjoyed being under the Draught?" queried Hermione, a bit more sensitively that she wanted to sound.

This brought a quizzical knitting of the brows from her divine professor, who merely responded: "Let me say, I never imagined such absolute peace existed."

Not to sound _too _sacchine, Snape added, "Though I am sure, in time, I would have become dreadfully bored with my position, the seemingly endless amount of time to contemplate and rest affected me for the better. I would not mind going under its spell again at a lated rate, but I fear it would be too dangerous to resume use."

Hermione's flax-brown curls bobbed in silent assent. She could imagine him laying six feet under, revered by all, yet eventually forgotten until the finding of a vital clue by a curious searcher . . .

"Would you consider it dreadfully ignorant of me to ask who found your note?"

"Not ignorant, but perhaps uninformed."

"Is there a difference?"

"A vital one." A grim half-smile graced his elegant visage nevertheless. "Still, to answer your question, Filch found my letter. The old man and I have always felt . . . shall we say . . . like kindred spirits of a kind. He did not believe—unlike _some _people—that I could be knocked off the map so easily. Thanks to his tenaciousness in this idea . . . voila."

"All this is very well," Hermione cautiously wavered, "But that does not explain why you, of all people, stand before me, in my bedroom."

His eyes widened in some alarm, and he retreated a step over the threshold, rising upright.

"I did not take that into consideration. Your greeting was . . . somewhat less formal than I expected. My profuse apologies, though. Your parents merely gestured to a door, and I went to it without thinking it might be your bedchamber."

"Explain why you had to confront my parents in the first place, and we'll forget the whole thing," comforted _(was she _comforting_ him, now?) _Hermione, though she secretly relished the idea of his treading within, even though his boots touched less than a square meter of her room's floor.

Snape gave a slight movement of irritation, resembling a raven ruffling its feathers, and declared: "I ought to have come to this, first thing. Doubtless it is strange that I, as your tutor and a man you and your friends have always openly disdained, should come to you for help at this time."

"Well, of the three of us, I always insisted you receive some amount of respect," insisted Hermione, but Snape had no time to waste his words in response while in the middle of his revealing his thoughts.

"However," he continued, reminiscent of a steamroller in his perniciousness, "upon my 'coming-back' as you might term it, Minerva and I decided that this was one of the better options." Snape cleared his throat uncomfortably.

"I was, of course, under the Ministry before its infiltration, a man once accused and acquitted of being a death-eater. Wizarding law is, in some ways, lamentably different to Muggle, insomuch that even when a man once accused and acquitted of a crime, he is not absolved from its shadow. It follows him through the rest of his life, and if ever he is found in the dock again for the same or similar offences, he will automatically, upon conviction, be sent for a lifetime to imprisonment."

A look of cold dread came over his face. "If a man survives death only to pass into a living hell, well, life is hardly worth living."

"Understandable," commented Hermione, though unnecessarily.

"In other words, I am a dead man now that the ministry is under proper command again, if found by them. McGonagall and Shacklebolt are in the process of clearing my name, but it is a long and difficult trial. Until such time as they conclude the beastly business, I cannot be 'alive', at least to the wizarding world. There are too many enemies for me to be safe there. The safest alternative the headmistress could conjure was that I might stay with the family of a friendly Muggle-born, and naturally she struck upon your name first as being favorable."

Did she imagine it, or did a flash of pleading cross his face for an instant?

"Your parents are all too unnaturally wary of me, however, and asked that I consort with you before any decisions were made."

Oh. Damn. Hermione realized that she was going to have the most wonderful man in the world live under her own roof—and, being her teacher, she could not touch him. Then, she could refuse the temptation of having him there and put him out to the bloodhounds.

No. Impossible. She could not be so cruel.

"Welcome to your new home, Professor," she smiled shakily, and extended her hand rom her position on the floor. Almost with suspicion, Snape accepted her hand and drew her once more upright. She kept her hand forced upon him until he realized she wanted to clasp it in a firm shake of settlement. He briefly, and, ever so gently, pressed his thumb and forefinger into her palm and knuckle, then drew it away quickly.

"I would not say a home, specifically," he replied, quiet, "Though I am sure there shall be no lack of reading materials for the duration of my imprisonment."

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_Sorry if it was a bit short, this chapter. _

_Indifferent? Review._

_Disdain it? Still review._

_Love it? Especially review._

_Main point: REVIEW PLEASE! _


	3. On Meatloaf

_It sucks that I have to have a disclaimer. Ok. I don't own Harry Potter. I'm not j.k. (just kidding) about the fact that I'm not J.K. Rowling. I am not affiliated with Warner Bros. nor do I make any claim to be. Fan writing FAN fiction. Enough said._

_More Review Replies! _

To duj: I got nothing against Australia whatsoever. As we already discussed, I am blaming its convict status entirely upon the Australian Wizarding Ministry. It's got some renovation to do, at least in this tale. Well, it will be quite a torturous bit for Hermione, I'll grant you. But he does get a happy ending 'cause, after all, he's a character in desperate need of one. Dear Sevvy.

To yapyap: I know. I'm really jealous of her. But, then, I'm the one who knows the end of the plot, so . . . haha, I guess that means her ending is something to be jealous of.

To excessivelyperky: Oh, I didn't think you were wining. Rather, your comment posed a few interesting things to say in my head, and I included my rant in your review reply. Not very ethical of me, but I didn't think about it until later. No apologies necessary. Filch is one smart cookie, at least here. Maybe later he won't be . . . but yeah. That matters not.

To notwritten: Oh. I meant people who don't really log in to review. But no matter.

To Lady-Isowe: Thanks! Your wish is granted.

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**Chapter 3 **

Skipping over a mundane and tedious bit with Hermione's parents and their natural reactions to having a strange, rather intimidating wizard who was supposed to be dead in their home, this story shall now slide into . . .

Hermione's bedroom, once again.

"Miss Granger, I hardly think that, as a guest, I have the right to sleep in your bed and displace you to the couch. If anything, I ought to keep to the couch. This is your room . . . your furniture . . . and I would feel very imposing if we actually carry this exchange out."

Snape and Hermione were at odds once again.

The young woman made a ridiculous show of looking over her potions teacher, scanning his tall, lean figure with an appraising survey.

"Have you seen the couch?"

He shifted and looked at the door, uncomfortable.

"It's not nearly as long as you are tall." Oh, dear God! She loved his height.

"It can be extended," he mused carefully, "I'm a wizard, after all. Though sometimes I believe you forget."

"It could be extended," replied Hermione, "But not without mussing my mother's living room. Which she would not like at all."

Snape found the ceiling very interesting suddenly, and his chin followed his eyes to observing the low light fixture. This was accompanied by the loud evidence of cavitation in his neck joints.

"Besides," Hermione declared, seeing another opportunity to make her point, "You're old."

She was surprised when he did not debate this.

"You need as much comfort and support to your weary bones as you can get. And the couch won't make your joints any better off."

Snape snarled with acrimony, but said nothing. He had voiced his abstemious opinion already, and if his hostess would not follow it . . . well, he had better things upon which to waste his breath.

"If the acme of your day is to criticize my declining age," he stated soberly, "You have achieved it."

"Something to cross off my to-do list. Haha." Hermione did not restrain a pretentious rolling of her eyes. With an adulterated glance at her potions master, which he did not observe, she tallied to the high cabinet in the corner of the chamber. From there she removed an unpressed yet bleached-white sheet, and she began to rearrange the blankets and coverlet of the bed.

"At least your room is not of a repugnant rose color," muttered Snape, almost grudging the fact that there was something positive about the situation.

"I hate that color, myself. Way too stereotypically feminine for my taste. To me, it represents girls who blush and giggle like innocuous little cherubs—girls who sit at home and sew for a living—the perfect housewives, the epitome of unsullied virginity, the figures who are completely and utterly subservient to men, those who have no brain or initiative or ambition."

The flood of vehemence rather stunned Snape, whose eyebrow twitched. He said nothing.

Hermione proceeded to spread out the clean sheets. "I'm going to switch these so the bed doesn't smell like me," she jested with a grin to the man who probably considered her a bete noire.

"It's rumpled," he pronounced after she had finished laying the mattress cover. Without another word, he drew his wand to ameliorate the disorder.

So, he was a neat freak? Hermione could bear with that. As long as he took the initiative to keep things tidy, and did not force her to fix everything just how he liked it, she could tolerate it.

By now, though, he had laid with perfect precision the rest of the dark blue blankets upon the bed. To seem industrious, Hermione applied a new coverlet to the pillow. Even this she did not do to the satisfaction of her teacher, however, and he threw an abrupt charm at it to make it as unfettered with furrows as a cricket field.

"So, that's done." Hermione looked at Snape, a question in her eyes that went unnoticed and unanswered. "Do you want to have a look-see about here? I can give you the grand tour."

"If it does not inconvenience you, certainly."

They left the room, Snape always remaining a respectful distance behind her, the perfect myrmidon.

Door number one.

Hermione opened it unhesitatingly. "Random junk closet," she explained. "I keep mainly my potions stuff in here for experimentation, along with my school trunk. Sometimes mum sticks in a stray umbrella, broken lamp, or books she wants to sell, but she doesn't touch my possessions. It's kinda a part of my domain."

"I see." Snape seemed to wonder whether or not he might be able to use the closet for his own storage, but did not voice his question. Hermione left the answer tantalizingly unsaid.

They moved onwards to the next one.

Door number two.

"Lavatory!"

Snape nodded and probably stocked the memory away as very important.

Door number three.

"Mum and dad's room. Don't go near at night if you aren't interested in hearing certain . . . noises. They can be rather rambunctious, if you catch my meaning."

Snape grimaced, and the pair went down the stairs.

"You probably saw the kitchen. And there's a back porch beyond the door that stands near the ice-box. There's always lemon squash in the cooling part of the fridge; my mother gets lemons from a friend in Naples."

Evidence to the fact sat upon the counter—three bright yellow orbs smiled at the enterers.

"I hate sugary beverages, Miss Granger, if you do not mind my saying."

"Then you really should try mum's," Hermione insisted. "We actually don't even have sugar in this house. You forget, my parents are obsessed with teeth. Rather, we have she puts in cinnamon and raspberry for flavoring. It sounds strange, but is devilishly tart and delicious."

"Raspberry, eh? I might venture to try a bit."

His tone indicated that he meant later, but Hermione, eager to show-off, poured him a glass then and there. She took some for herself as well, for he seemed a bit suspicious—as though she would lace his drink with arsenic while he stood there watching her!

In reaction to the potent drink, his eyebrows shot up with surprise, but otherwise seemed rather calm.

"Better than I expected," Snape mused, following Hermione out of the room.

"Again, here's the living room, but the dining room is kinda connected to it and the kitchen."

"I see . . ."

"The second lavatory."

"Mhm."

"And the library."

" . . ."

Snape swayed a bit when they entered the library room.

"Oh . . . dear . . . Merlin . . ."

The place literally could have encompassed an olympic-sized swimming pool, and had at least twenty rows of bookshelves.

Hermione's grin of satisfaction marked the end of the professor's attempts at restraining his loathing of the situation.

"My . . . God!"

He absentmindedly set his glass of squash on a table near the door and walked dazedly across the sleek hardwood floor. Eyes large as golfballs, veins palpitating on his forehead, he undid his sleeve cuffs and rolled the appendages to the middle of his arms, as though in preparation for a long bout of hard work. Hermione found herself fascinated by the pale underbelly of his arms, marred by scars of battle . . . and the faintest traces of a dark mark. This made her involuntarily shiver with a mixture of excitement and fear. It somewhat surprised her that his arms were . . . well, like her dad's: covered with long dark fibrous locks of hair. She saw, too, that his hands had the same manly affliction.

Nevertheless, though disillusioned from the idea that his skin would be smooth as she expected, she imagined that Snape probably would look very similar to right now when having very good sex. Fortunately the occulmens did not read this thought with his fascination in the books.

"Welcome to the Granger inheritance, Professor," remarked Hermione rather pathetically, hoping to place some emphasis on her own role as the leader in this moment of grandeur. It did not work. Snape seemed so overwhelmed that his tongue passed over his dry lips as he surveyed the rows, calculating the bounty of knowledge contained within these precious walls.

"This room ought to be protected by fireproof charms," Snape declared with the same fanaticism and fervor that an ardent African naturalist might declare 'the black rhinoceros must be preserved!'

"I've thought the same, sir," Hermione agreed, but Severus had no eyes for his student. He seemed almost to have a lust for all the books.

"I guess it is a bit startling at first sight," Hermione drawled on, "My father sometimes jokes that my mum merely married him for this library."

Finally, the potions master looked at Hermione—but as he never had looked upon her before! At first, the teenager thought she sensed an intense and passionate longing for her touch, but she soon realized that was only wishful thinking. Instead, she saw . . . was it almost condemnation? Jealousy? Anger? Love?

"You . . . you do not know how absolutely lucky you are, Miss Granger," Snape faltered. "How can you take all this . . . take it all so for granted?"

"I grew up with it, and thus I guess it's less of a big deal," Hermione proposed, but this seemed a bit callous to say to someone as obviously jealous as Snape. "You can come in here any time you like though, Professor. Read whenever and whatever. My dad's secret stash of . . . well, I'll just call them magazines for when mum's on a business trip . . . is under the floorboards of row 14B. If that sort of thing interests you."

Hermione had a spent a summer years ago where she had thought herself a lesbian, and the accidental discovery of those magazines had been the only cure for her mistaken identity. However, Snape did not even seem faintly concerned about any amount of pornography. His eyes only strayed to the quantities of knowledge and understanding, the multiple works of epistemology that surrounded him above-ground.

"Thank you for informing me," he murmured absentmindedly, then drifted over to a random bookshelf.

Hermione decided that he was only going to study books for a good long time, so she went to a nearby desk with a computer to play her vocabulary-enhancing internet programs.

After some time, a cry escaped the lips of the professor.

"Gaston Leroux's work Confitou! I never thought I would find this!"

Hermione's gaze drifted from the computer screen to look at her professor, apparently intoxicated by the book in his hands. Then, he opened it, sinking down to the floor to lean against the bookcase and read.

He's going to love it here, after all. Hermione smiled boldly to herself, then turned her attention back to her work.

………………….

"Hermione?"

Dr. Granger entered the library to see the two pedagogues hard at their various works. Hermione typed furiously at the computer, writing a fine bit of literary analysis for a primary source of the 1700s by John Locke. Snape's mercurial eyes focused almost lovingly on the 31st part of his French novel.

"It's time for supper."

"Wait a minute."

Three minutes passed.

"Come now, your mother won't like it if everything gets cold waiting for you."

Sighing, Hermione rose and flexed her legs sadly. They had a habit of cramping after prolonged hours of sitting inattentive. "Coming, professor?" she called to the as-of-yet-immobile figure against the bookcase.

Without looking at her, the reply escaped his lips just barely. "I never . . . eat after six in the evening."

Hermione looked at the clock on the corner of the computer screen. "It's just seven. We always eat about now. Does that mean you'll never partake in evening meal with us?"

A scoff erupted from his corner. "Not as though you people want me hanging about, anyways."

"Well, us people think that a young man like you ought to have three square meals a day," declared Dr. Granger, flashing his cliché bright smile at the sullen guest.

"I'm hardly young, Dr. Granger—I turn thirty nine next January."

Hermione almost squealed. Snape was, in all probability, a Capricorn. Some of her favorite authors and actors were Capricorns. Like Humphrey Bogart. How lovely!

Dr. Granger studied Snape a moment. The gaunt 'young' man still did not move his eyes from his book, and moved his lips as he read as though relishing the sentence. Or, Hermione realized, in an absurd attempt to focus amid the admonitions of her father.

"Professor Snape," the dentist declared slowly, "I'm nearly sixty, and I feel like I'm twenty. Don't make me feel older than I am by acting so martyrishly soddish. Now come to dinner or else!"

Severus read for a few more minutes, then abruptly closed the book.

"If you insist," he acquiesced boredly, and followed the Grangers out of the almost-magical library with due regret.

………………………..

Hermione hated meatloaf. A more despicable, disheartening, wretched misuse of meat could not possibly be found save in the annals of Incan lore. Or was it the Mayans who sacrificed their fellow humans to their Quetzal? She could not recall for sure—many years had passed since her in-depth exploration on the history of the Americas.

Now the chunk of blubbery meat sat before her, marring the sheen of the delicate porcelain plate with its revolting rubbery state.

"Please pass the green beans, professor?" she queried to the dark-haired man on her left. Shaking his head irritably, Snape carefully snatched the required platter and placed it in Hermione's hand, making sure not to graze her fingers in the exchange despite Hermione's especial interest in foiling his attempt.

There were scarcely any in the dish when she dug with the serving spoon. Curiously, Hermione looked around to see who at the square table had displaced most of them on his or her plate. Surprisingly, she discovered Snape the culprit.

He had already begun to eat them, or she would have begged him to share. Laboriously, he sliced each long strand of the home-grown vegetable into four parts, and then placed each portion in his mouth one by one, daintily chewing each thoroughly before swallowing and inserting the next.

Then Hermione saw a reason for the abundance of his greens: he had no meatloaf on his plate. The bastard! She was not going to suffer this alone!

"Would you care for some meatloaf, professor?" she queried sweetly, taking the warm tin of meat and bread, holding it under his nose. To her immense satisfaction, he turned a bit paler.

"Don't touch the stuff," he said, looking a bit sick. "It never agrees with my digestion."

"Really?" Hermione promptly scooped the largest remaining portion from the dish and plunked it on his plate, on top of the vegetables. "You really should eat it. If you don't get enough iron in your diet, you could get to be anemic."

Good. Though he blanched, he did not want to be taken as an ungrateful man to the cook, who smiled at him expectantly.

"Very well, Miss Granger," he managed to say without sighing, and unhesitatingly speared a bit of the meatloaf.

"It's far better than I expected." His eyes glared at Hermione, who hid her mouth behind her napkin to control her giggling.

"I'm glad, Professor Snape," Mrs. Granger nodded, all the brighter for the complement. She turned back to her own food, then, and Hermione saw Snape neatly dispense of the partially-chewed meat into a napkin and drop it soundlessly on the floor. Hermione found this a bit shocking until she felt a warm kneazle's tail around her ankles, and remembered that a little hungry kitty had not been fed lately.

Keeping a sharp eye on her parents, Hermione took Snape's lead and discreetly disposed of her meatloaf, 'bite' by 'bite' to the eager animal at her feet. Snape continued to do the same, until, finally, no more meatloaf remained on either of their plates. They shared a conspirational glance that . . . pray, did she see right? . . . held a hint of almost comradeship and mischief.

Somehow, they had discovered, without use of words, something they held in mutual loathing. Hermione thought this was wonderful. She hoped Snape thought so, too, but realized it was probably a bit early for such an idea on his part.

Besides this, dinner was practically uneventful. Dr. Granger talked about a pair of absolutely abominable molars he had encountered that day. Mrs. Granger lectured on the newest computer programming for her office work. Between the two, Snape and Hermione found themselves left with little to say except the usual pleasantries, and, since those were from an area generally foreign to Snape's anyhow, Hermione kept up both his end and hers. It pleased Hermione to see their small four-cornered table surrounded completely—something that never had occurred before, that she could remember. It seemed a bit more homey.

"Hermione, dear, would you help me clean up?" proposed Mrs. Granger tiredly after the close of dinner.

"Certainly," replied her daughter, but everyone was surprised when the professor—nearly silent unto this time—volunteered to also help.

"An excellent dinner, Mrs. Granger; perhaps you ought to sit and rest. I shall take over your duties at the sink."

Mrs. Granger smiled broadly. "That would be most kind. Thank you, Professor, but you really need not if you don't like."

"I'm a man of impatient leisure now, Mrs. Granger, and it would ease my conscience somewhat for your kindness in allowing me to stay here if I could do some of the chores usually allotted to you and the doctor."

The elder Grangers mused over this for a moment.

"Then go right ahead, I suppose," Dr. Granger agreed. "If it makes you feel better. Hermione can tell you what to do."

Collecting plates with the decorum of any 19th-century butler, Snape assisted Hermione in clearing up the table.

"Meatloaf really is horrible," he confessed in an undertone while they scraped dishes in the safety of the kitchen. "It was my father's favorite dish."

"What happened to your father?" Perhaps Hermione ought not have asked such a directly personal question, for Snape's eyes kindled a fire of hatred and disgust. Though, she saw, the malevolence was not directed towards her, but, rather, memories.

"He was an alcoholic and died, a sadder but none the wiser man," the teacher grumbled ferociously. "I hated him."

It did not seem to occur to him how much he had said until a second later, whereupon he proceeded to find his shoes very interesting, and began to bang the pots a bit harder than he had beforehand.

"Don't you hate a lot of people, though?" prompted Hermione. She knew she was testing her limits, but still . . . if one never took risks . . .

"Not so many as you might suppose."

He clammed up for the rest of the evening, however, and said nothing else.

Hermione did not find herself daunted. She would win him eventually, once and for all.

* * *

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	4. On Brownies

_Review replies at the bottom, this time. Too long, too many. That's a good thing, though, don't get me wrong_.

* * *

**Chapter 4 **

Though the potions master did protest more at bedtime about sleeping in Hermione's bed, he eventually gave up—weary and depressed-looking—on the grounds that such pointless banter would be certain to bring about a migraine. Thus, he retired without another word.

Morning came, and though Hermione wakened excited to see her professor trapezeing about the house half asleep in naught but his pyjamas, the girl found herself too late. The evidence of someone having bravely made coffee in a foreign environment littered the kitchen counter . . . a bag of coffee beans left out and delicious aromas from the pot. Hermione counted the absence of exactly one fresh sourdough muffin from the basket her grandma had brought over two days before. She might have measured the butter, but, as she knew not the measurements of the stick in the refrigerator prior to that morning, she did not. When she approached the library, a gentle light seeped from under the door.

Damn. He's such an early riser Hermione decided, noting that the clock read 6:14.

………………

She debated going to the library and, as yesterday, sitting with him in studious mutual silence, but chose against such course of action. It might be better not to cramp his style at first. Instead, she went up to her room.

Well—her room that was also now his room, the his part being the most important in this instance. The very idea sent cliché shivers down her spine. Cautiously, as though afraid the notoriously-reclusive man might have set intruder-repelling spells or other wards, she poked open the door. Nothing happened, but, then, the light was off. Her hand drifted from her side to the wall and found the lightswitch. Almost expecting a thousand spiders or bats to fly at her face with the sudden illumination, she threw the switch and took an abrupt step back. Then she laughed. Virtually everything looked normal.

A small valise was propped against the bed, closed and neat. The bed had nary a rumple in the fabric and the pillow neither. Hermione, in a fit of mischievous malice, threw herself upon the bed.

Hm. He must have firmed the mattress. She was certain it always had been softer than what she felt.

With a sigh, she stood, then decided the new-made creases in the blankets too mean. With a touch more temperate than the breath of the south wind in spring, she straightened the blankets.

Yet an impulsive desire thus seized her again, and she pressed her nose against the pillow on which he had lain his head overnight. She found herself again sending peals of laughter throughout the room. Traces of her mum's shampoo—the kind meant for dyed hair, with a scent only barely fitting its title of 'lavender'—lingered on the fabric. Apparently, her potions master did have presence of hygiene enough to at least wash his hair, though his taste in selection may not have been the most discerning!

Before choosing her own day clothes, Hermione walked about in her drawers, pondering the idea that Snape, in all probability, had also been quite deprived of clothes in this same room not 24 hours ago. The prospect of what he looked like after his shower definitely thrilled her, and she reveled in the notion to a great extent.

…………………

Snape spent an inexplicably long time in the library. Mrs. Granger and the Doctor left Hermione at home as they left to their Harley Street office, almost forgetting their strange new guest. It was just Hermione and the professor alone at home today.

Throughout the morning, Hermione rampaged about the house as loudly as she could with the hoover, wondering if the noise—certainly a strange one for anyone who lived only in the wizarding world—might draw the antisocial old bat from his new domain. This was to no avail.

At eleven, she prepared tea, hoping the warm smell would disturb the potions master enough to surface from the habitat of books, but again this failed.

Deciding she needed a better ruse, Hermione began to clean the kitchen, though there was very little to do. In the process, her eye lit upon the calendar.

Oh drat. She had a piano lesson that day.

Mrs. Granger inherited a mahogany baby-grand from her great aunt before Hermione's birth, and ever since wanted someone in the family to become acquainted with the instrument. The task fell automatically upon the first- and only-born Hermione, who truthfully could care less about any amount of Chopin or Schumann. Yet, the girl put no protest when her mother started to send her to the little old crone down the street for lessons on what Hermione termed in her mind as 'la beaste jolie', or 'the pretty beast'.

Years after she began her weekly institutions with the aforementioned elderly woman, she dearly regretted her lenience and docility in complying with her mother's plans. Seating herself upon the bench with a forced resignation, Hermione opened her scale book. They were cursed demons, scales. She hated them.

Dutifully completing them nonetheless, she moved onto Mozart's Rondo Alla Turca (Turkish March).

Who in the world would ever want to write a Turkish March? her inner voice growled.

As her hands thumped over the keys, she became vaguely perceptive of a presence over her left shoulder, but in her concentration paid little heed to the awareness.

"C sharp, Miss Granger" corrected an oily bass voice from behind her, stern and melodious as an iron bell.

Hermione stopped her halting rendition of the once-quite-popular piece with a hearty glare. Snape stood behind her, eyes looking a bit strained, but his brows knitted with faint amusement.

"Can you play it better, then?" the female braniac spat, a bit irritated. She did not like the idea that he had entered so silently—when did he ever come out of that library, anyways?—also coupled with the faint embarrassment which ineveitably followed the use of expletives said in presumed privacy.

Snape slightly moved his shoulder in an unvoiced response, and Hermione gratefully forfeited her place on the bench. Lacing his fingers and cracking them audibly, Snape took a straight-backed, prim stance at the piano and began to play the march. At first, he sounded not really much better than Hermione, but, after a few measures, his slender fingers seemed to accustom themselves and attain a new life on the ivory. He must have known the piece by memory, for his eyes did not focus on the written music, but drifted to a lampshade.

A few measures away from the conclusion of the Coda, he hit a wrong chord for the first time.

"Blast." There, he abruptly stopped and flipped wordlessly through the music, a trifle ruffled.

"You're very good," exclaimed Hermione, before realizing her pronouncement quite the understatement. "Where did you learn?"

At this point, he found his place again and stared at the notes a brief moment before replying.

"My . . . my mother reveled in the arts. The wretchedly afflicted woman insisted upon my learning."

A sudden thought struck him then, and he shivered almost imperceptivity.

"Well," Hermione stated again, "You're really quite a grand pianist. I mean . . . I've been learning since I was about five and still . . ." She shook her head. "I'm no good yet, but I suppose I have no aspiration to be."

She watched his left hand—such a long, beautiful, almost aquiline hand!—stroke the silk-smooth wood of the instrument.

"It's an excellent bit of craftsmanship," he commented dully.

"Can you play anything else?" queried Hermione, at once desiring to hear more of the enchanting music made by her teacher.

Snape paused, blinking perplexedly, unsure what to answer.

"Do you," he decided, "Enjoy Carl Maria von Weber?" Without waiting for a reply, he drew the bench purposefully forward, rolled his sleeves about six inches up his sinewy arms, and began to play.

Oh, but what a dainty touch he had, yet what fire and passion came forth in his dramatics! Fierceness and strength faded to pensive tranquility, to follow with a calamitous wildness and appealing pathos. Hermione felt her emotions fluctuating with the music more easily than she thought them susceptible. One moment, an indefinable anger filled her chest, though it softened to a gentle sense of reflection, changing to a reckless joy and gradually a piercing lamentation and loneliness so great that she felt despair settle upon her as a dark impenetrable fog.

This all broke with the slamming of the front door.

"My God! Hermione! What did you do? You never—" Mrs. Granger waltzed into the room. Snape, startled, stood abruptly, knocking the piano bench over with a resounding crash that made both him and Hermione cringe. It being one of those with a compartment in its main body, the latch came open and sheets of music fluttered out in a gigantic spread across the floor.

"I'm quite sorry," apologized Severus haltingly, and bent to hurriedly gather music, his eyes shifting as though caught in a guilty act.

"Well!" Mrs. Granger looked at the scene before her. Hermione sensed that her heart was in her mouth, and dared not say anything lest it jump from between her lips. Instead, she shook her head in silent amazement and grinned widely.

"Right. I just came back to get my purse—forgot it this morning, and we're going out to lunch," Mrs. Granger explained. "You two eaten yet? I'd like to take you."

"Certainly," exclaimed Hermione, standing.

Snape said nothing, continuing to gather the spilled articles from the floor. Setting the bench upright once more, he gave a bitter smile.

"Unfortunately, I must decline, Mrs. Granger. Thank you nonetheless."

Of course! He can't leave the house!

What a desperately humiliating situation. Hermione opened her mouth to volunteer staying, but Snape anticipated her words.

"No, Miss Granger, do not trouble yourself. You deserve whatever time beyond these walls you might attain. I am satisfied." Giving a hearty glare—but one that seemed rather contrived, Hermione mused later—he stalked off, in all probability to the library.

…………………….

"Professor?"

She walked into the library hours later, a postmedial white bag in her hand that wafted smells of warm chocolate. An elongated sigh testified to his location, accompanied by the scraping noise of books moving. Hermione found the potions master demurely in the process of rising from the floor, his crepitus loud as usual.

"What in heaven's name is it, Miss Granger?" he asked, a bit tritely with a look acerbic. The bag rustled as Hermione opened it.

"My mum was very thoughtless earlier, but not without good intentions. This is a boon to regain your good graces."

"What made you think you had them before?" he asked, but with the voracity of a foxhound, his nose poked into the proffered article. "Cake, is it?"

"Brownies. Much better."

He seemed to consider for a fleeting moment, then with much finality stated, "No thank you, very much."

"Come now," persuaded Hermione, "They have pecans. Did you even have lunch?"

"No, but I had work to do . . ." He gestured to piles of parchment littered in undecipherable scribbles and a dark mauve quill laid carelessly aside.

"First, you might do well with a desk" his hostess suggested dryly, "Second, I must say that it's not as though your work is really 'work', in the strict sense of the term, just merely something for you to pass the time of day. Third, even if it were really 'work', it should hardly interfere with your health."

"Food is barely essential to man's survival except in the minor quantities," Snape replied with an uncivil sneer. "That's Sir Jocelyn Maggot."

"If you had read 644 Out of Date Ideals Stipulated by Wizards by Martin Lefoe, you would have learnt that Maggot died in his twenties, and was gay as hell. I believe it was syphilis that did him in, additionally."

Did she detect a bit of color evaporate from his temples?

"I don't believe such a statement of Lefoe. He has always commented widely on his admiration for Maggot."

"Well, his latest editorial in History of Wizard England, if you've read that, clearly states that his opinions have been greatly revised in the past year based off a set of personal letters he uncovered from Maggot to his purported lover, Jean-Cristophe Serna."

Snape frowned. "That is hardly possible. History of Wizard England is rarely revised. When was the latest edition, the one you seem to have perused?"

"This most recent one, released just June of '98."

Her potions master grimaced as he thought of this. "If you would be so kind as to prove such . . .?"

"I'll find it if you share these with me."

Without further ado, the girl found herself seated comfortably on the floor in a sort of seiza similar to the Aikido stance. Awkwardly, the older personage followed, but leaving his legs outstretched. Hermione admired how they extended so far that he almost had to fold them in order to fit in the space between the shelves.

Two brownies soon were spread upon the top of the white pastry bag, and Hermione noted with a happy amusement that Snape—once persuaded to actually partake in the fare—claimed the slightly larger piece as his own. She decided that his show of modesty and self-denial was only a façade to hide his innate greed, but did not mind this contemplation one bit. It seemed to make the man more enticing still, as if she needed any help!

"So," she asked tentatively while still savoring the very sight of the chocolate confection in her hand, "What exactly are you attempting to manufacture?"

" . . . Researching wizard geniuses who are known to Muggles . . . but not as wizards . . ." Snape declared between swallows of brownie. His bit had a considerable dent in it already.

"I see." Hermione leant over a pile of parchment to try and decode it.

"You will not be able to read my work, Miss Granger. It's in a peculiar shorthand of my own invention."

Rather disgruntled, Hermione resumed her most upright posture and glared at the ardent scholar. "Why are you such a genius?"

"Genius is a relative term, Miss Granger." Now all traces of brownie disappeared as he brushed his fingers absentmindedly on his robe's side.

Did she just imagine it, or did he seem rather nervous at the sudden diversion of subject onto him?

"Don't you think you are? I don't think you possibly could not."

He turned towards her, cold black eyes calculating and austere.

"I might possibly ask the same of you, Miss Granger."

Hermione felt a sudden push of resentment fire within her. "That's not true. I'm merely book-smart. No talent involved in that. You . . . my God, you've achieved the greatest public speaking skills I've ever seen with an amazing fluency with potions, you've developed your own writing system, have a magical strength beyond practically everyone in the wizarding world, plus you have your hidden talent of piano at a professional level . . . all that's genius. Not my simple memorization of facts and figures."

He seemed to weigh this carefully in his mind. "Then comes the point at which one must determine between artificial and natural genius," he stated rather oddly, but then stood. A crumb of brownie fell from his robes and hit Hermione's hand, though he did not notice.

"I believe I will retire for the evening. Feel free to disturb whatever you care to there, but mind you put it all back in some amount of order. Have a fair evening."

So saying, he departed rather anticlimactically, not even bothering to flourish his robes as usual.

I really ought to stop bothering him, Hermione mused, but I really wish he'd not just stalk off whenever I want to talk . . .

She settled for leafing through the books he had pulled out, which included a few on Leonardo di Vinci, Cyrano de Bergerac, and Shakespeare, and began to work through the pages he bunny-eared.

_

* * *

_

_Ok, that was short, but I'm really busy lately and I just wanted to give you what I could. Next chapter will be another with Ron . . . and I promise it will be entertaining!_

_More review replies! Wow, there were a lot this chapter, thanks everyone! _

Pstibbons: _Glad you're intrigued. Oh, she will soon enough, never fear! The HGSS will actually not take as long as one might expect, so this story won't be really REALLY long. Just a good solid 30 chapters or so. As to the star signs . . . yeah, that might be a little OOC. Something more Luna-ish to notice. I'll avoid that in the future, thanks. _

_Yapyap: That would have been really difficult. I started composing the scene . . . it ended up just being too awkward and weird. Not coming out how I liked at all. I scrapped it and moved on to this more entertaining chapter. _

_Whitehound: Mm. 'Tis not often I get a comment of pure criticism. Rather set my day off balance. _

_Anyways. True, Ron is good at chess. And I am not really trying to portray him as very stupid, either . . . just too stupid for her. Being a sort of Hermione-ish figure in real life myself, I have had relationships very similar to that of Hermione and Ron, and they were completely and utterly frustrating. Sometimes even nauseating. Dear me, I guess this sounds like I'm making Hermione into a sort of embodiment of me . . . well, actually, I guess I am. But I do that with all characters I write about--I compose it so that they all have something in common with me. _

_Now as to Watson. I personally agree with you, but, remember, this is from the point of view of a person who, in all probability, has not read the books in a while. If she had watched the movies lately, Nigel Bruce does NOTHING for the image of Watson, either. I took a more Bella Spelgrove approach on her view of Watson, if you've seen the musical of Sherlock Holmes of listened to the soundtrack. There's a part called 'Men Like You'. (B: But is he pretty? Is he fragrant? S: Watson? Of course not. He's as pretty as a walrus and as fragrant as a something. But for all his faults, he's Watson. B: Ha! S: What do you mean, 'ha'? B: How typical! How typical, hiding behind such a feeble excuse, 'He's Watson! Such a loveable goose.' Who's only held in high regard because he flatters your facade! S: Facade? B: A totally arrogant masculine attitude, highly insensitive, full of ingratitude. Because you are frightened of women your friends are all wet. There's no intellectual stimulus, challenge or threat.) That's exactly what I want Hermione to think of Ron, from Bella's point of view. _

_The main point was that Snape resented that she didn't even try. She and Harry just stood there and watched him die, not even making a move to stop the bleeding or anything. Who knows? They might have saved him. In this case, he somehow saved himself, though. _

_Misuse of words? Well . . . if you read my profile, you would see, I'm still just a learning writer. I haven't even had my 16th birthday yet. I keep words in my brain, but sometimes use them inappropriately. I apologize for any instance I do. Thanks for the correction on the 'nee' . . . I could not remember which way it went. That was a mistake that might have been avoided, I'll grant you. _

_Thanks for at least giving my story a try. .shrug. I must say, though, if you're trying to look for a story perfectly in accordance with canon . . . you'll find the majority of fics on fanfiction dot net do not fit those standards. Now this is technically not major AU, I do not believe; it takes place in between Hermione's house and Hogwarts. So please don't give me that response. _

_Thanks for your time. _

_Duj: I give you full permission to slap me on the forehead. That was pure imbecility on my part. Well, maybe not imbecility, but unconscious neglect. Whatever. Ok, I am officially saying now: __the idea about Australia was that the Australian Wizarding Ministry is just as (and maybe a bit worse) than the English one, that's why it'd be so bad for Snape to have to go there. Yup. Thanks for that. Snape anticipated some 'reading material' in Hermione's home, but he's completely blown away and very jealous. But not as tortured as Hermione, who wants nothing more than to snog him senseless. Haha. Poor dears. __Excessivelyperky: Thanks. I'll probably do the same if/when I get married. I might just make my entire house a library. That would be tres cool. Merci for reading, as always!_

_Colymcnolie: That's what you'll see right now! _

Kazza, XxObScenexX, Lady-Isowem. Dizi85, notwritten and annabelle67: Well, if you actually got here, this was more. :)


	5. On Hoovers

_How funny. The day I finally decide to put Intellectually Correct as 'extinct' on my profile, I get the inspiration to continue it. Story of my life. By the way, I'm not doing review replies in my story anymore because I believe it's an infringement of the rules. So yeah. I apologise for doing it before._

But _here, my dear readers who have been waiting forever for an update . . . here is:_

**Chapter 5**

"Bloody hell, why hasn't she owled me for so long? I still don't understand it," mumbled Ron, half just irritated, half actually quite concerned.

"She probabky has just been busy," Harry said lamely. (1) He was not as keen on this expedition to Hermione's house as was Ron, but the only reason he was there at all was because of the fact that Ginny was tied up with tackling Teddy Lupin's diapers all day. Now they stood on the front doorstep, having rung the bell three times in the past ten seconds.

The door opened, and both boys choked on their own saliva in amazement. Hermione was dressed up as Severus Snape gone Muggle!

"Whoa, Hermione, _what _the blazes are _you _up to?" Ron demanded, "I don't even want to hug you when you look like that greasy git-"

"-Weasley, I suggest you never try or I shall hex you until doomsday. Go away."

"Damn, that's a great imitation of his voice," Harry muttered, but no one heard him. 'Snape' made a motion to close the door, but Ron jammed his foot into its path just in time to jar it.

"Come now, Mione, take that bloody disguise off—though why in hell you'd want to be disguised as Snape is a mystery to me, you better have a bloody good reason—and let us bloody in! We haven't heard from you in days and-"

Again he was interrupted, but this time by a feminine, airy voice somewhere in the background.

"-Oh, is that Ron?"

Harry was about to make a wisecrack at her being a superb ventriloquist, too, but the way Ron was looking at (someone!) through the door behind the 'Snape' figure, he figured it would be inept at least.

"What the hell? Snape?"

Ron was so taken aback that he pulled his foot out of the door. Snape (whom we know to be not an imposter) leaned against it heavily, and the boys were only saved from having it slammed in their face was because Hermione stuck _her _foot into the door. It was fortunate that Snape stopped when she did this, because her foot was only in a sock, not a shoe, and it would have been blessedly painful otherwise. Rescuing the job of gatekeeper from Snape, she gently shooed her professor's hand away from the doorknob and opened the door wide to admit the boys.

"Please, Professor, they are my friends, as irritating as they might be to you."

Scowling, Snape took two steps back, turned about abruptly, and stalked away angrily to the library. Then, suddenly remembering that Dr. Granger was in there at the time—and that man would allow NO ONE inside while he was working—Snape stomped up the stairs to the bedrooms.

Hermione knew the boys were here because she had not asked them over or even owled them for a number of days, and she felt midly ashamed. Not very, though.

"Hello blokes, come in," she smiled, "I was just making lemon squash."

"Lovely," the boys chorused, and they went to sit in the living room.

"So . . . 'Mione . . . what's with the man dressed as Snape? You know, that time I was joking about your dad being strict, I had no . . ."

"Heavens, no, my dad's in the library working right now!" Hermione laughed, pouring generous servings of the lemon drink for the boys. "You won't believe this, though—that's actually Snape. _The _Severus Snape."

The boys were incredulous.

"But . . . 'Mione, we saw him die," Harry said, mystified.

"Um, no. Actually, he hadn't. He just knocked out. He's staying here until McGonagall and the ministryn people clear his name and such. It's a tedious leagal process, since he has so many blemishes to his name going back over twenty years."

"I heard they were doing that, but I had no idea he was still alive!" Ron blurted. "My dad mentioned it to us, but really! I had no idea!"

"You usually don't, dear," Hermione chastised, somewhat more bitterly than she intended. _I need to . . . do something about this boy. Really. I can't imagine myself married to him. Did I really think I was in love with him for years? What a fool I've been. Thank God I never thought it practical to marry young!_

She did notice, though, that he had not tried to kiss her or anything, mainly because of the Snape disturbance, she supposed. _That saved me once, but next time . . . _She sat next to Harry after serving them, hoping Ron would notice her slight detachment. _I'm going to have to tell him I can't be his sooner or later . . . _

He stayed where he was on the opposite couch when she positioned herself. Good. He was treating her as if they were still at the 'just friends' stage, instead of the 'just friends who like each other a lot' stage. The days before their complicated and impulsive relationship.

"So . . . um . . . 'Mione . . . have you . . . um . . . been doing things with him while he's been here?"

_Oh. God. Harry, you're such an idiot to have asked that. I SO wish I was lying!_

"Nothing more than torturing him with my heinous piano playing and the advantages of living Muggle," she grinned, ignoring the potential implications that could have been in his undertones. She felt false about the grin, though.

"Are you sure?" Ron asked huffily.

"Of course!" Hermione said, and was rewarded by his switching couches so that he could nibble at her ear. They talked in idle chitchat for a while, played with the telly (Ron's fascination with the controller and the sports channels were similar to her predictions of the future) and they talked about maybe going to a show in the near future. They were arguing about restaurants to attend—the boys wanted to go out clubbing later, Hermione preferred the idea of attending the Ivy—when Snape emerged from upstairs to get a glass of water. The boys faltered in their conversations, glancing at each other overtly.

He made such a noise of it that Hermione could not help but giggle under her hand. Banging cupboards in an almost comical manner, theatrically sighing when the tap took longer than he liked to fill his glass, and then actually dropping the glass upon the floor when he stooped to put it in the sink. The shatter brought Hermione back to reality after admiring her professor's very neat arse _far _too much, and she leaped from the couch.

"Shame on you, Professor," she insisted dryly. "Pick up the large pieces; I'll fetch the Hoover."

"The whatcha-oover?" Ron asked, but his girlfriend ran away too quickly to clarify.

Harry laughed. "A vaccume cleaner."

Snape was in a crouched position when Hermione came back with the catankerous kilowatt-sucker in the 'off' mode. He was picking up the glass with a deft hand, as one would if they dropped a glass every day of their life. Just to tease, Hermione advanced the box-like head of the vaccume just near his boot toe, and then flipped the switch. The Hoover roared into life, scaring the living blazes out of the professor. His audible yelp set both Ron and Harry into unsubsiding cascades of un-boyish giggling.

"What the devil is that?" he demanded after falling on his–very hot—arse. Hermione was slightly ashamed at herself for potentially damaging the posterior of the professor, but thought the scene was entertaining enough that the sacrafice was apt.

"It's a vaccume. Watch! It's like _magic!_"

The small chunks of glass left on the floor disappeared as the box moved back and forth across the linoleum.

"Muggle magic," Snape spat. "I'll wager it's all in the bolbous red canvas."

"Excellent, professor!" cried Hermione. "That's the dust-bag! You really are a genius!"

("He is," Ron admitted to Harry in undertones, "I couldn't figure that out without it being explained.")

"If you think that by degrading me, Miss Granger, you elevate yourself, you are heavily mistaken," Snape declared drearily, standing up and brushing himself off with a surprising amount of dignity.

Harry and Ron ended up in another giggle fit just because they looked at each other the wrong way.

"You two! You ought to be locked up somewhere with such idiotic grins!" the snarky professor chastised, glaring vehemently.

Hermione had to agree, but kept it to herself.

"Ain't it surprising to see who's the one who's locked up, though," Ron taunted, grinning even more dopily as he said this.

Snape put on his best effort to let this comment bounce off him, but Hermione could tell this: he was absolutely seething.

In quick response, Hermione yelled, "Enough is enough already!" and turned off the Hoover, the use of which had been long expended. "Guys, you must be at least moderately nice to Professor Snape or I might just have to kick you out."

"Us? Kicked out in favor of the slimy git? I didn't realize there was even a choice, there," Ron declared, while Harry whistled with mock astonishment at the fierceness of this statement. "Come now, 'Mione, be reasonable."

Snape seemed strangely satisfied by this development, even though Hermione's accusatory tone was more amused than angry. "She meant what you said, ignorant pundits. Act like halfway respectable gentlemen and perhaps you shall not be scorned."

"Hmph. It seems that you'd know, eh Snape?" This time it was Harry, and Ron turned to him, aghast. Apparently, Harry's suspicions were not quelled by Hermione's denial of anything being between her and the professor.

"Thats Professor Snape to you, Harry. I mean, God, I still call him Professor even though he's living here," Hermione declared, flustererd at the idea that Harry distrusted her, mainly becuase she was feverishly attempting to realize if she had in any way displayed her hidden affections for the potions master to Harry in the course of the visit. It did not seem to her that she had . . . but, then, she could have been wrong. She hoped her view was right.

"Of course I would know," Snape spat back at Harry, but said no more.

Awkward silence prevailed.

"Well, it is obvious that I am unwelcome," declared Snape bitterly, and marched up the stairs again with just as much dramatic enthusiasm as usual. Unfortunately, since he had adopted Muggle clothing to beter fit in if, by chance, he was noticed by the mail carrier or something, he had no cloak to better emphasise his exit with a flourish.

Hermione put away the Hoover and joined the boys again. Pointedly, she sat at the couch opposite from them, so as to be initially far away from Ron.

"Stupid git," Ron said, getting up and crossing over to join her. As he entwined his hand in her hair, he suggested, "You know, I never did get that first 'hello' kiss I was expecting when you opened the door . . ."

Hermione stood up abruptly, letting Ron fall face first on the couch. "Um, Ron, can I talk to you privately a moment?"

Alarm displayed itself in a bright flush on his face. Then he brightened. "Oh, yes, I'm sure you've got some desperately _horrible _news." His sarcasm would make it worse, Hermione decided bitterly, but it had to be done . . . and since she had already asked to see him alone, it had to be said. Had to be done.

She drew him into the Hoover closet, closing the door behind them. The closet was right under the stairs, so Ron had to stoop a little so that his head did not graze the ceiling. He was tall, but that, Hermione decided, was his sole attractive feature.

He did not even wait for her to present her 'horrible news' to him; he delivered his own 'horrible news' in the form of a first class snog. It was all Hermione could do to push him away.

"Actually, this may be more horrible than you thought," she declared, trying not to look at him. "Ron . . . I'm sorry, but I just don't want to be with you anymore."

He looked at her a moment in the dim light of the Hoover closet lightbulb, then began to laugh heartily. "Great joke, 'Mione . . ."

"This isn't a joke," she insisted, and the message began to sink into his brain.

"What?" he asked numbly, his expression changed dramatically. "What?"

"You're still one of my best friends, Ron," Hermione insisted, "And you're an amazing and wonderful person, but . . . well, I don't want to be tied down by relationships at this point in time. I'm thinking of going into politics, you know," she suggested, though she really had only come up with the excuse that second. "And in politics, you've got to have the most strategic partner. And, I'm afraid if you want to be a quidditch player, you really aren't the most strategic. Plus, I don't really . . . love you in that way anymore."

She was gushing at this point, saying anything and everything she could think of to make him feel better. His hurt was so evident—he looked on the verge of tears.

"You don't, you say," he stuttered ominously. "You don't, eh?"

Without another word, he tore out of the Hoover closet, racing through the living room, past Harry, and out the door.

Harry stood up from his place on the couch, throwing a dreary-looking magazine to the ground. "What was that? Where did he go?"

"I'm not sure . . . but I think dinner is called off, Harry."

Harry Potter looked puzzled. "What? Why?"

"It's probably the least thing Ron needs tonight. I believe I just about broke his heart."

Eyes widening behind his glasses, Harry nodded. "I thought it would come to this," he said, sadly. "Hey, 'Mione, I understand where you're coming from, if you get what I mean. It's kinda hard to date your best friend." He brushed the wrinkles from his sweater, then gave a curt wave. "I guess he needs me more than you do. I'll talk to you soon, 'Mione. Cheerio!"

So saying, he left in quick pursuit of his best mate.

Hermione, still standing in the Hoover closet, sank down against the wall. She had never dumped a boy before, not one she had properly been with, and it hurt her almost as much as she felt she had hurt him. But, then, along with the pain of having caused someone else injury, there was a sense of . . . liberation. Of fufilled destiny.

On chance, she glanced into the darkness where the lightbulb did not quite reach properly, and was shocked to see two dark obsidian eyes staring at her.

Realizing she finally had noticed him, Snape commented dryly: "Well, I see you finally came to your senses. Well done, Granger."

With a false indignition, Hermione stood up, startled but only pretending to be angry. "You had no business witnessing that. You low-down eavesdropper! Why would that sort of thing interest you?"

She hoped it was for a _certain_ reason, though, that he had condescended to listen-in, however.

"It doesn't interest me at all," Snape replied acerbically, shuffling forward and standing to almost his full height. She saw that he had been in what must have been a very uncomfortable position during the duration of her conversation with Ron, one elbow jammed across his knees and his legs folded up until he was quite small. "It's just that after I left your chortling buffoons, I apparated down in here to fufill my curiosity concerning this . . . Hoover." He gestured to the innocuous machine. "I was in the course of examining it when you and Weasley stormed in here, and he attempted to virtually rip your shirt off. Having no time or space to apparate, I merely stuck myself back here and kept quiet."

"I see," Hermione said, pretending to deliberate with herself before admitting that his story was a good one. "Well, all right, if you want the instruction manual for the Hoover, I believe there's a pamphlet stuck between the bag and the front plastic bit. Enjoy yourself."

Thus saying, Hermione left the room, wondering what she was going to do about this nosy potions professor's definite lack of interest in _her. _


	6. On Old Music

_**Chapter 6!**_

An hour and a half passed. Dr. Granger finished whatever work he had in the libary and whizzed off back to the office for his late-morning appointments. Hermione settled down in the living-room to puzzle over The Complete Short Stories of Franz Kafka. (_Because_, she decided _the man was a freak, but a genius freak. His innate freak-ness was so unbearable that he had to write stories that are like . . . the analogy of a box within a box within a box, I guess. _Her current story involved something to do with a very E.A. Poe-ish narrator thinking _rather _gay thoughts for this other man, then the other man told a long convoluted story in his point of view, then the story went into another point of view, and then it went to a dream where someone else was narrating, and then going into yet another point of view of someone IN the dream . . .)

In any case, Hermione soon was interrupted from the brain-twisting mystery of words when the clock struck twelve. Realizing she was hungry, she meandered into the kitchen, nicked some rice pudding and carrots, and went back to the couch. At some point, she noticed Snape emerge from the realms of wherever he had disappeared to—probably the library, now that Dr. Granger was gone—and he made a beeline to the same destination.

Unlike her rather conservative healthy choice, Hermione noticed that he just cut a three-quarter-inch slab of ham from the prior night's leftovers and lathered it in stone-ground mustard, half a jar of mayonaisse, and several tablespoons more than a dash of Worchestershire sauce. At first she thought he was just going to eat it calzone-style, but he remembered to stick the concoction between two slices of bread as an afterthought. Hermione felt her cholesterol rise right there just by watching him make it; as it was, she did not eat pork, and watching all that gunk go on it made her stomach wretch. She swore she saw a demonic smile on his face when, at one point, he turned his head just _so_, but his back was to her the whole time so making any accusations would be fruitless.

He walked past her to go back to the library, taking his first bite as he walked. Hermione gave up pretending not to watch him and stated, dryly: "You forgot the Tabasco sauce. It's in the cupboard."

For a moment, he looked as though he were going to choke. Then, bravely, he swallowed, and looked at her in moderate disbelief. Then, all of a sudden . . . he thanked her! "Oh. Thank you, Miss Granger, I couldn't find it."

Then, to her utter astonishment, he walked back into the kitchen, de-constructed his sandwich, found the aforementioned Tabasco sauce, and poured a generous amount on top of the sticky yellow-brown mess. It looked officially like vomit, by that point, but nevertheless he put the sandwich back together, neatly put the bottle of red Mexican juice away, and resumed eating his sandwich unruffled. "Much better now," he decided after swallowing, wiping his mouth gingerly with the back of his wrist.

With an elegance unequal to even Minerva McGonagall, he stalked out of the room, taking voracious bites of his sandwich all the way.

When finally the library door closed, Hermione doubled over in laughter. _Screw Kafka. That was hilarious._ (1)

After her initial recovery, Hermione tried to concentrate on Kafka again, but found her mind wandering.

_Poor Ron. I made him cry. I . . . I don't think I've ever made anyone cry before. Usually everyone else makes _me_ cry. I suppose that's what girls are supposed to do . . . I mean, the guy can always supposedly find someone else . . . but I wonder if really guys are as hard as they make themselves out to be. I believe it probably hurts them just as much as it hurts girls . . ._

As her mind was about to go into the realms of the birds and the bees, she was ironically saved by her mother bursting through the door with the proclamation: "Aunt Mildred is going to have her baby!"

"What?" exclaimed Hermione, rising quickly. "Did she call you?"

"Mr. . . well, Buster did," Mrs. Granger said with some distaste. She never liked Mildred's husband. He was a plumber, and Mrs. Granger thought her little sister was better than that kind of a man. Not that it mattered much to Hermione; Aunt Mildred was a rather plain, stupid woman in her opinion, and was lucky to have gotten married at all. In a Jane Austen novel, she would be the only one in the end left unmarried, consoled only by some terrible penchant for piano playing or painting.

"Are you going to go visit her?"

"Oh, well, we said we would help them get adjusted. It is their first, after all, and I don't like the idea of Mr. . . . Buster's dirty hands that have been in somebody's toilet all over the baby. Because, of course, Mildred won't be able to handle anything by herself."

Hermione had to laugh. "Well, he's the father. He will eventually have to be changing diapers and all the rest of it."

"Well, not for the first week, at least," Mrs. Granger decided. "Hopefully Mildred will remember enough from when she baby-sitted you as a tot . . . otherwise I daresay she'll end up killing it on accident." She paused to reflect. "That was a long while ago, actually. She was younger than you . . . only thirteen or some-such when we had you. It's lucky she's having this one finally. It took her far too long to get married. She still runs the chance of going dry before she can get another one . . . though with their income they really oughtn't have more than two children . . . oh, and that reminds me, dear, if you want children you'll want to get about it before you get to thirty or so, since our family does tend to go dry early. Dear Mildred mayn't pull through any more after this at her thirty-two, you know . . . but, we must hope for the best." She smiled a pained smile, then stroked her daughter's curls affectionately. "Where's your Ron? I haven't heard anything about him for a while."

"Oh, he came around this morning with Harry, actually," Hermione said, trying not to portray the annoyance she felt at the mentioning of her _ex-_boyfriend inopportunely. _In the same breath as she talked about me getting kids! Oi vey! _

"Anyhow, so are you going now?" Hermione asked, changing the subject quickly.

"Oh! Of course! Yes! I need to get my things and some clothes for your father, too."

"Is he going along?" Hermione felt a little dejected at the idea that she was not invited.

"Oh, of course he is! Do you want to come, though?"

"Well," the girl admitted, "Not really." _Yes, actually, I'd much rather stay and admire that beautiful bundle of sticks that tries to pass himself off as a man that lives in our house. That makes absolutely the worst sandwiches ever. Of course I'd rather stay! It's more fun than being badgered by Aunt Whiny and Uncle-pretends-to-be-a real-member-of-the-family-but-doesn't-fit-in._

"I didn't think so. You like your books. Anyhow, someone needs to be around here to get the newspaper and mail and such, keep things from getting too dusty. We were intending to take the small car anyways, save on oil. You can go get some things for your father, then, if you don't mind."

Though slightly irritated at the _can _as opposed to the _may _her mother used, Hermione conceded and went to go help. The next few minutes were a flurry of searching, stuffing, more searching, and more stuffing. Toothbrushes were among the most important, of course, along with floss and even her father's water-pick.

All too soon, her mother stood at the door with two bags, having trouble with her large cell-phone about the size of a brick. (2) "Your father will be back on Sunday evening, I expect, since he has to work, but I'll take the week off and won't be home until next Friday. Oh, how convenient that she chose to give labor on a Friday! It makes everything so smooth . . . if I could have chosen any day to give labor, it would be a Friday."

"What day did I come on?"

"A Wednesday."(3)

Hermione grinned, halfway wondering if her mother was intending on remembering that _her daughter is going to spend virtually an entire week unsupervised with a strange man in the house_. "I suspect it was dreadfully inconvenient."

Frankly, her mother responded, "It was, actually." Then she smiled too._ Nope, with all the excitement caution doesn't even cross her mind. Unlike with me, I think. "_But you aren't an inconvenient girl at all."

"I should hope not!"

Thus, with a quick kiss, Mrs. Granger hurried out to the car, calling "We'll have the phone on!" . . . and was gone.

Hermione felt a pulse of extreme excitement course through her.

"HOLIDAY!"

She screamed with delight, forgetting momentarily (as her mother had!) that there was anyone else in the house. Feeling like running about in her stockinged feet like a three year old, she contained herself somewhat by only doing a very dangerous cartwheel, which ended in an almost-nosedive into the heavy coffee-table. _No more crazy Hermione time. Hermione almost got herself a concussion two minutes after her mum left the house for a week. Hermione must remember that she 's not a little girl anymore. _

If her self-reminder needed any further strengthening, she heard a certain voice floating over the landing.

"Miss Granger, what's been going on?"

She sat up quickly, trying to look like she was doing something decent. Like . . . yoga. _God, when did I think yoga looked decent?_

"Oh, my parents just left for the week-end."

"May I bother to ask . . . why?"

"My Aunt Mildred is in labor, apparently."

Hermione frowned as she looked up at her professor. He was leaning nonchalantly against the railing at the top of the staircase, but behind him, from her open bedroom door, wafted an eerie lavender haze.

"Oh. Wonderful." His sarcasm bit her. "Therein lies problematic ethics."

She pretended not to notice. _After all, I'm 18. There's no reason this should be problematic, or unethical. Adults are so . . . _

"So, I would hypothesize that that lovely purple smoke is non-toxic if you're letting it just float around the house, right?"

Snape turned slightly, blinked at the sight before him, and drew his wand to send the smoke all drafting back into the room. "I don't suppose it is toxic. At least, by my calculations, it shouldn't be. However, I've learned not to assume such things with experience . . ."

"You better make darn sure it isn't," Hermione demanded with a huff. "I don't want my parents to come home and find me dead."

"I'm sure, Miss Granger, that they would rather return and find you-"

She did not want to hear what sarcastic comment he had, so she interrupted him.

"-Oh god damn, just open the bloody windows, all right?"

Raising an eyebrow at her sudden explicitness, Snape turned around and went back into her bedroom to resume whatever experiment he was doing. _Just hope it doesn't explode all over everything. Though, I guess, he isn't a Longbottom, of course._

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

_Ooh, I and the professor are alone in the house for the entire weekend._

This delectable thought was the only one on her mind for hours. She could not bear any more Kafka—the writer was too melodramatic, honestly, and made such a mountain of a rock. It was getting to the point of pathetic. The idea in her brain was far more tantalizing . . . she was getting caught in reveries of what would happen _if in a second he just walked down the stairs and came and sat down next to me? _Yes, she was becoming that pathetic herself. She halfway expected that this weekend, something would happen; she had a vague idea what she expected, but she dared not actually describe it in words. Images flooded her brain . . . _beautiful_, she thought, _absolutely divine dreams. _Consciously, she knew they would never become reality, but her hope was so strong, it was impossible to reconcile with her reason.

Kafka soon was discarded, and Hermione wandered around trying to find something to do with herself. She found herself leafing through the tall rack of CDs near her dad's living-room stereo.

_Rolling Stones. Van Morrison. Steely Dan. Billy Joel—ooh, I like that guy. Beatles, of course. The Who. Ewww, Barbara Striesand. The Zombies. Oh, here!_

She drew forth _Bowie: The Singles Collection_.

"Yeah . . . David Bowie."

There was one song she really, really liked a lot on this particular pink CD. She turned it on, inserting it slowly. She clicked to the number she thought it was . . . _It should be number Nine . . . _

_It's a god-awful small affair  
_

"Yes!" Hermione sat back on her haunches to enjoy the song.

_To the girl with the mousy hair  
But her mummy is yelling "No"  
And her daddy has told her to go  
But her friend is nowhere to be seen  
Now she walks through her sunken dream  
To the seat with the clearest view  
And she's hooked to the silver screen  
But the film is a saddening bore  
For she's lived it ten times or more  
She could spit in the eyes of fools  
As they ask her to focus on  
Sailors fighting in the dance hall_

"Miss Granger?"

Snape appeared at the top of the landing again. "Would you turn that infernal music off?"

Choosing not to reply, Hermione simply sat there. _He won't convince me to turn off my favorite song._

_Oh man!  
Look at those cavemen go  
It's the freakiest show  
Take a look at the Lawman  
Beating up the wrong guy  
Oh man! Wonder if he'll ever know  
He's in the best selling show  
Is there life on Mars?  
_

"Shut if off, would you?"

_  
It's on Amerika's tortured brow  
That Mickey Mouse has grown up a cow  
Now the workers have struck for fame  
'Cause Lennon's on sale again_

"Are you communist or something?"

_  
See the mice in their million hordes  
From Ibeza to the Norfolk Broads  
Rule Britannia is out of bounds  
To my mother, my dog, and clowns  
But the film is a saddening bore  
'Cause I wrote it ten times or more  
It's about to be writ again  
As I ask you to focus on_

_Sailors fighting in the dance hall_

"Dammit, I'm trying to work! Please, hell! Just turn it off! Or at least put something decent on!"

She waited until the last chorus had resounded, then hit the back button so it would start again.

_It's a god-awful small affair_  
_To the girl with the mousy hair  
But her mummy is yelling "No"_

"Stop it! What the hell is wrong with you?"

_And her daddy has told her to go  
But her friend is nowhere to be seen  
Now she walks through her sunken dream  
To the seat with the clearest view_

A loud sparking noise began to erupt from the bedroom. With a snarl, the potions professor dove into the room, still screaming "Turn the infernal bloody damn thing off!"

Only because it was potentially causing the professor to damage her furniture and clothes, Hermione turned off the music. "What's wrong with it? That's my favorite song!"

"And my least!"

He came out again, wiping his forehead with his sleeve. _God, I need to cure him of that habit; it's not becoming at all . . ._

"All right, you have it off. Did your little project damage anything in my room?"

"No, I caught it in time. It's ruined, but-"

"-All right. Then you need to come downstairs and we need to have a _chat_."

She was so determined that he saw he had no choice but to comply. With a snap, he disapparated, and he showed up immediately in front of her. Sitting primly in the couch across from her, he growled, "So, what is this about?"

"Why do you hate my favorite song?"

He closed his eyes and put his hand to his left temple. "That's a highly personal question, Miss Granger, I hardly think that-"

"-You're living in my house and you won't let me play my favorite music. If you have one good reason, I'll change the entire CD, but otherwise . . . "

_He's embarrassed. Oh! He's blushing! I think . . . it might just be the light . . . no, he's blushing!_

"Fine," he spat. "See if you care to know this: My father owned the record, Miss Granger . . . the one with that song and _The Man Who Sold the World . . . _and he liked to play it quite often when he was doing things . . . to my mother . . . that he oughtn't have done."

_Oh. God. That must have been really cruel of me._

"I'm genuinely sorry. If you had just explained instead of yelled at me to turn it off . . ."

"Sometimes the reasons are better left unvoiced, Miss Granger. Especially with me." He stood up. "Are you making dinner, or am I?" he queried, just on the verge of menacing.

Hermione laughed. _After his version of lunch? _"Actually, I hadn't gotten around to thinking about it. But, you know, I think I better do it. I don't think I fancy a ham sandwich."

"I was intending on making crab, actually," he sniffed, "But I'm certain the Tabasco sauce you seem to hold in such high regard would completely cover the subtle, intricate tastes of the ground coriander and-"

"No, actually, if you want . . . please do!" _I can't believe he was actually serious in the kitchen earlier, now that I think about it. _"If you can make something . . . nice, that is."

"I'm not a potions master for nothing," he stated superciliously, shrugging. "I'll be back down at six. In the meantime, start something . . . pleasant, perhaps."

"Billy Joel?"

Hermione proffered the CD.

"_The Stranger_? That's good enough."

She thought she heard him whistling the opening bars of _Only the Good Die Young _underhis breath before she even got around to turning on, however.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

_It's getting a little darker now. June solstice is over._

Hermione gazed out the window. Billy Joel had given way to Cream, which had given way to Pink Floyd, which had given way to Manfred Mann. Now she was on Steely Dan, and was wondering why _Doctor Wu _had references to _Katy Lied_ in it . . . of course, it was in the same album, but still . . .

"Bring back _The Stranger_, would you?"

Snape came downstairs, hair tied back, sleeves rolled up, evidentially keen to change Hermione's opinion of his kitchen abilities.

"Sure. Any song in particular?"

"Vienna?"

And there they were, talking and acting like normal people. _He might be anybody but Severus Snape. What in the world have I done with the greasy-haired git of the dungeons?_

_Slow down you crazy child  
You're so ambitious for a juvenile  
But then if you're so smart tell me why  
Are you still so afraid?  
Where's the fire, what's the hurry about?  
You better cool it off before you burn it out  
You got so much to do and only  
So many hours in a day_

He turned on all the light switches, she noticed. Despite his work in the dungeons, he seemed to like a lot of illumination.

Pans clattered. The fridge opened and closed. Knives chopped.

_But you know that when the truth is told  
That you can get what you want or you can just get old  
You're gonna kick off before you even get halfway through  
When will you realize...Vienna waits for you_

Hermione flew over to watch as the utensils danced and Snape manipulated a large bit of very fresh-smelling crab from the fridge.

"Where in the world did you get that?"

"Owled it when I heard our cook had abandoned us. Used your name, sorry."

"I don't care. But where in the world did you owl it _from?_"

"I know a Swede who supplies to top-star restaurants in France."

_Slow down you're doing fine  
You can't be everything you want to be before your time  
Although it's so romantic on the borderline tonight _

She rolled her eyes. "You're a genius with contacts. Can't get much better than that. Thank goodness you weren't wasted."

_Too bad but it's the life you lead  
You're so ahead of yourself  
That you forgot what you need  
Though you can see when you're wrong  
You know you can't always see when you're right_

He looked at her, an unfathomable stare that made her wish he actually had some distinguishing color for his irises besides what was virtually black. Then, calmly, he resumed dissecting the crab.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

It was nice, just the two of them. Dinner . . . _oh my god. What can I describe dinner as? It was so . . . absolutely amazing. I'm definitely marrying this bloke. _

The Billy Joel CD was replaying over and over again, but they did not mind too much at hearing it more than once. Hermione had decided to duck out and get some red wine, so by the time dinner was ready she had it on hand, and he could not nicely refuse to shelve it.

Now they were basking in the warmth of the slightly dim-ish lights, finishing off the rather large bottle of wine between them. It seemed natural, serene, and positively the way Hermione envisioned her future. _We may as well be married now _she thought lazily, laying her head against the back of the sofa. _Except for the fact that he's still insistent upon the OPPOSITE couch. _

Indeed, that barrier had yet to be broken. Snape, ever too cautious for her taste, was actually laying down at this point, head against one arm of the couch and feet propped on the other end. He looked positively dashing, cavalier, and more at ease than she had ever seen him. Though, she assumed, the alcohol helped to a degree.

Ironically, _Scenes from an Italian Restaurant _was playing, for the second time since they had assumed their current positions.

_A bottle of white, a bottle of red  
Perhaps a bottle of rosé instead  
We'll get a table near the street  
In our old familiar place  
You and I - face to face_

"That's one of my other favorite songs," Hermione confessed to the room. A satisfied 'mhm' came from the professor as he twirled his glass slowly, holding it to the light.

_A bottle of red, a bottle of white  
It all depends upon your appetite  
I'll meet you any time you want  
In our Italian Restaurant._

"I feel like we're celebrating something," Hermione suggested, wondering what this situation might possibly lead to . . . hoping it would be someplace good.

"Hm?"

"I don't know what, though." _I really am an imbecile._

He filled in the blank, however. "I should have thought it was obvious. You ditched that idiot Weasley boy today. Anybody ought to celebrate that."

"Ah, well, I feel rotten about it."

_Things are okay with me these days  
I got a good job, I got a good office  
I got a new wife, got a new life  
And the family is fine  
Oh we lost touch long ago  
You lost weight - I did not know  
you could ever look so nice after so much time._

"Rotten? Why rotten? He's an idiot! No intelligent young woman deserves someone like him."

_He called me intelligent without a backhand! Huzzah! _

She stood up at this point, stretching and advancing to the CD player. Maybe Steely Dan again . . . she did not have enough energy to find something different.

"Don't turn it off."

She looked incredulously at him.

"The good part's coming up—wait, _Do you remember those days hanging out at the village green?"_

He was singing. _Singing! Good lawks-a-mussy, it's a miracle! Not very loud, of course, but . . . he likes this song. Hell, I do too, there's no reason not to like it. _

He still was singing, even if the lyrics seemed very . . . well, un-Snape-like. He did skip the line about 'engineer jackets and tight blue jeans', but went on from _Oh you drop a dime in the box, play a song about New Orleans . . ._

And, wondering why she had never given Snape alcohol before if this was how it made him, she joined in, somewhat louder and more confident. "_Cold beer, hot lights, my sweet romantic teenage nights Oh, oh, oh, oh…_"

_  
_He broke off, for a moment, not remembering the words, but Hermione blazed on courageously nonetheless. "_Brenda and Eddie were the popular steadies, and the king and the queen of the prom Riding around with the car top down and the radio on."_

Feeling a bit lonely singing by herself, she motioned for him to go on, and he did, to her utmost astonishment.

"_Nobody looked any finer  
Or was more of a hit at the Parkway Diner  
We never knew we could want more than that out of life  
Surely Brenda and Eddie would always know how to survive.  
Oh, oh, oh, oh….._

The way he looked saying 'oh, oh, oh' was just so funny that Hermione started giggling. His memory faulted him at that point too, or something, because he stopped singing too, lips twitching. Then, before Hermione could get a hold of herself, he was laughing along with her.

_Laughing! Good lord! Severus Snape, laughing! In my house!_

It was the ultimate mark of her conquering, to have Severus Snape under her thumb in a good mood. _Good night, my dear, you've done your good deed for the day!_

But there was more to come.

Like Harry and Ron had earlier that day, their eyes met just as they were getting calm again, and they burst out into laughter again. There really was not all that much funny in the situation, but they were rather drunk and self-satisfied and . . . well, _happy. _

At least, in the ephemeral sense.

She was laughing so hard ad this point that she was crying. He was laughing so hard at this point that he rolled off the couch and almost shattered his wineglass. It was empty by that point, so it did not splatter over the white rug, fortunately.

"Shit. That hurt."

He had hit himself against the very solid coffee table that Hermione almost had cartwheeled into that afternoon.

"Are you all right?"

"I suppose. I'm still talking, right?"

"Unfortunately."

She giggled again, but there was something wrong in her voice, he seemed to sense. He got up off the floor--joints creaking probably, but she could not hear over the music—and he sat on the coffee table to better see her.

"You're crying, Miss Granger."

The way he said 'Miss Granger' after all this was just too unnerving, and, to Hermione, _proves that really nothing has transpired between us . . _. _just wishful thinking of a terribly wretched girl who throws over boys because they would ostensibly be bad for her potential political career._

"I'm such a bloody idiot," she exclaimed, turning her head into the couch so that he would not need to see her tears. _He's the least person in the would who needs to see tears after all he's been through. My god, how many has _he _shed in the years . . . in front of people . . . not in front of people . . . _

"A lot, Miss Granger."

_Shit. _"You bloody legilimens."

"It was but a glance, Miss Granger, just a glance."

_I goddam hope so. _

"But really. . . Mr. Ronald is quite . . . ahem . . . really. There's no reason you should be grieving over hurting him. He's _technically_ a man, he can purportedly take care of himself."

"Ha. I like how you say _technically._" She could not bring herself to laugh, however.

"And tears aren't . . . I've discovered they are not as terrible things as you might think I would think."

She gave him a look amid her own. "When did you discover that?"

"Just now, I believe."

She felt like punching him in the arm. "You cold fish."

"Go ahead, hit me if you care to do so. If it would give you a sadistic pleasure."

Not liking to admit she had a need for sadistic pleasure, she refrained for a moment, but the idea of her knuckles testing his taut arm muscles was too much. She hit him, though, very lightly.

"That was scarcely anything."

"I don't feel like I have much need for sadistic pleasure," she feebly answered, trying to laugh but still feeling miserable. "I feel so horrible for just throwing him over like that . . . without any warning . . ."

"You gave him warning, but he was too stupid to see, as per usual," he reminded her. "Your little fiasco with the couches."

"Oh. You noticed that?"

"Yes."

"Oh."

She did not know what else to say.

"You did it the best way. If he has any sense, he'll thank you later."

"What way did I do it?"

"You were concise and otherwise disassembled all chances for hope on his part."

She threw him a strange glare. "Why is that good?"

"Prevents strange things from happening later."

She snorted. "And you know from how?"

"Not personal experience, true. Vicarious experience, you could say."

"Mhm. You and your 'vicarious experience'. Hm. You sound like Professor Lupin."

He thought on that for a moment. "Perhaps." He did not seem to like the idea.

_Oh, I'm a miserable little wretch. I bring up just about every bad memory of his that he's ever had in one day . . . well, not exactly, but still. _

The tears were simply refusing to stop on her part.

"You know, though," he said, almost warningly, "That I am a bit wiser and quite a bit older, Miss Granger. It would be understandable that I gleaned some amount of knowledge in this world, even if not from things that happened to me."

_He's almost being . . . well, gentle. _

"That's not to say I don't know a damned many things, Miss Granger." His suddenly cutting tone assured her that he was still halfway tuned-in on her thoughts.

"Is that proper English? A 'damned many things'?"

A grim grin appeared on his face, almost scary in nature but strangely . . . well, she had no idea how to classify it. "I believe it works . . . hm . . ." His eyes drifted to the ceiling as he apparently made the attempt to count the mounds of coconut-like stucco that littered it. "Now that I think about it, I couldn't say for sure. I'm a bit tired."

"Sit on the couch, then." She pulled his arm in such a way that he easily complied, settling down heavily as dead weight next to her. "Could you wave a _cesiendo _at the CD player?"

"Hm? _Incendiendo?_"

"No, I don't want it to combust! Just turn it off."

"Mhm."

He did so, and soon the silence became heavy upon them.

"Did we really drink all that?"

Hermione looked up to see what he was staring at: the wine bottle, almost completely empty. "Yeah."

"I'll wager it was mostly my fault. Wine is too mellow; I forget it's alcohol after a glass or two."

"I had my share." She frowned. "I don't think I've ever had more than a few sips ever before, though, of anything."

"You're lucky you're now spewing right now, in that case."

"Well, my stomach hurts."

"Along with your conscience."

She had to think what he meant, then remembered Ron. "Rather." Hermione closed her eyes, thinking about the rather eventful day . . . feeling her heart beat faster as he settled deeper into the couch next to her . . .

. . . wondering why he did not pull away when she lazily put her arm around his slight middle.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

(1) I burst out laughing after I wrote this. I kinda based it off my brother and his penchant for making disgusting sandwiches . . . especially with Tabasco sauce . . .

(2) Remember, this is 1998, people!

I looked it up.

Anyone download the new Counting Crows album? How is it? I'm going to get it ASAP. :)


	7. On 'Lily'

_I'm not just kidding when I say that I'm not J.K._

_Dear me! My poor readers! I just realized I have not updated this in over half a year . . . shame on me, I thought it was something more like a month or two. But two months grew to four months etc. So now I'm going to give you something really thrilling. Hold on to your hats, this ought to be fun._

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

**Chapter 7  
**

Snape awoke at about three in the morning or so, roused by the interminable clock in the kitchen that only chimed at odd hours. Blinking boisterously, his eyes soon focused on the dark shapes around him, the shapes of the telly, the CD cabinet, the coffee table, the kitchen counter, and the opposite couch. All seemed as normal—save the fact that he had fallen asleep on the sofa instead of his own bed!

It really was his fault; his eyes had drooped and his mind had responded 'I'll get up and go to bed in ten minutes', but had drifted to other less tangible tangents soon afterwards, thus preventing him from carrying out his plan.

A tickling motion on his shoulder caused him to sharply look there, and he saw Hermione nestling closer to him in her sleep. Her arm, as he saw, was still encircling his waist, and it was a deuced uncomfortable position with her cheek on his shoulderbone. _She'll wake up with a souvenier of my shirt texture if neither of us moves. _He was, surprisingly, not vehemently averse to her touch, but found her gesture rather amusing.

_One more piece of evidence to show that the brains of Gryffindor has fallen for the Half-Blood Prince_, he thought to himself, then vigorously shook his head when he used the old conjured nickname that he had sworn to forget. _God, I was such a stupid kid. _

Although he found the antics of his previous student amusing, he could not rightly condone her feelings. _It may make me laugh in private, but she dumped Weasley for me. Weasley, who was one of her best friends from childhood, and she made no qualms about potentially killing their friendship, in order that she might be free for me. She must have realized, too, that in dumping Weasley she possibly might have engaged the wrath of his entire vicious family _and _Harry Potter, the amazing infantile hero. _

He then brought up the question: _Do I even want her?_

This was easily answered. _What a stupid notion. _

However, in the nature of experimentation, he commanded his own arm to move around the girl's torso, returning her embrace, and he drew her closer to him. He was not sure what to expect—the certain euphoria as depicted in romance novels when two star-crossed lovers meet for the first time, very likely—but whatever it was did not occur. The sensations he felt as he analyzed the situation were very simple. Her hair, wiry and bushy and raspy, grazed across his ear as he moved her. Her breaths were regular, inhalations lasting along the nature of three or four seconds and exhalations similar. Her smooth abdomen gently expanded and contracted with the fluctuation of her lungs and diaphragm. Nothing, all in all, happened within him besides the noticing of these cold facts, and it severely disheartened him.

He had one more major portion of the experiment to conduct. Meticulously, he moved his head ever closer to hers, inhaling her bitter-warm scent and attempting to discern if it was appealing to him. Abruptly, he felt her warm cheek as his obnoxiously-large nose grazed it. He began to feel his pulse's palpitations increase dramatically, and he tried to determine if it was because he was so 'in love' or because he was so close to infringing his rights as a teacher. Closing his eyes automatically, he felt his neck crane just the slightest bit, and his lips methodically kissed hers. His mind raced a mile a minute with the adrenaline rush. The sensation was being recorded in every possible way, to bring it to a more recognizable level. _Her lips are chapped and thus a little rough at the edges, but they are soft and smooth nonetheless. I might as well be kissing a pillow. _

_Shit. Is she awake?_

He could have sworn that her eyelashes had flinched just as he opened his own again. The notion set his stomach squirming, and he realized the endeavor had been an ill-inspired one. Severus stared at Hermione without moving for a full minute until he saw that he had imagined the movement. As quickly as he could without risking her awaking in truth, he resumed his first position, shaking his head softly and biting the inside of his cheek, attempting to draw blood to atone for the atrocity he had committed. _Kissing your student. What a sick old perverted bastard. No matter if it was for the sake of science, that's just disgusting. _

He could be nothing more than ashamed and relieved that nothing had resulted from the mishap. Perhaps if the bud of her doe-skin eyes had borne its flower and gazed expectantly, strangely receiving warmth from the cold shine of his moon-like visage, the results might have been different. However, this did not occur to him, for there are but few flowers that bloom at night. These being uncommonly rare and not widely considered beautiful, most people overlook them. The new moon of Severus' affection proved unfortunate, though there would be a coming hour where his waxing face would finally alight on the sight of the Queen of the Night's advent to admire her fullest glory.

As it was currently, Snape settled further back into the couch, laying his head along the top of the rim and staring lackadaisically at the ceiling.

_I don't want Granger, that much is evident. I can't be in love with someone if I feel like I'm raping them with a simple kiss. I've never wanted anyone besides Lily. That's the way it always has been._

"But that doesn't mean you couldn't want her in the future," a disengaged voice in his mind said, and he turned his head just a fraction to 'see' the visage of his beloved 'Lily' standing over him, a hard scowl upon her face.

Without an explanation of any sort, he disentangled himself from the girl and stood up to face the dead of the night alone. He knew Lily was not _really _there, but just a figment of his imagination, but her continual presence was one that had comforted him all through his teenhood and adult life. It was very silly, very childlike, but imaginary people had been something he fully endorsed since his most youthful age, and he never had full reason to grow out of it.

Before Lily existed, there had been Alice (of no surname), a queer girl who vaguely resembled Luna Lovegood in appearance, but of a more sensible nature. She had been Severus' primary companion before he saw Lily in the park the first time, actually, and she advised him to take a more gentle approach to introducing himself than the way he eventually did. Her plan had been, more or less, to watch from the bushes near their house until she saw the girls leave to come to the park, then run through a shortcut he knew to the park and perch himself on one of the two swings. Then Lily, who would want to swing with her sister, would introduce herself and ask him kindly if he was finished. The plan, Snape saw later, was a much more subtle one, but either way he attained Lily's friendship, so he did not recognize Alice's wisdom until later.

After his mother had suggested that he 'find some young boys to play with', he spitefully created a young boy slightly younger than himself named Humphrey Buster Bottles. Humphrey was much like Peter Pettigrew of his later acquaintenceship: snotty-nosed, infalliably of inferior mind, and ready to go along with whatever young Severus wanted to do. He played, essentially, servant to Severus, and Severus never addressed him as anything more dignified than 'boy'. His relationship with Mr. Bottles quickly ended after even Alice risked being pushed out of his life with the advent of Lily's real and tangible friendship.

His adventures with 'Lily' began the day that he called the real girl a Mudblood in front of the entire school, when he retreated from her dorm that night with tears in his eyes and a sob about to emerge. He wished fervently that she would come running to him with a change of mind, ready to accept his apology. The result of this was that he 'saw' an imaginary 'Lily' who did so, and actually went so far as to kiss him squarely on the lips before going back to her dorm.

The inevitable result of such encounters with 'Lily', which became hopelessly romantic far too soon, was that Snape felt terrible for his estrangement with the real Lily. _I could have it for real if I tried hard enough _was his mantra all through the remainder of his school years. With 'Lily', however, he was able to numb the pain of the ended friendship. Pretending that she was there, standing at his side every minute he wanted her, holding his hand when he was infuriated with someone or something, snogging him on dark moonlit walks, and even consummating with him in the mild privacy of his own bed (his dorm mates all masturbated themselves and thus paid him no heed) left him in a sort of surreal daze.

With being so extraordinarily in love, without having done anything to earn it, he made no real changes to his world, letting the tide carry him where it would. Thus, he became a Death Eater without truly percieving it. The day he was branded with the Dark Mark, she was actually there, encouraging him to keep strong and hale. He knew the real Lily would never condone it, but with a 'Lily' controlled by his own mind, he could make her act however he pleased.

During the time he was actually fervent about following the Dark Lord, 'Lily' was entirely supportive of his choice, and so ironically sealed her own fate. After the marriage of Lily to Potter, and his relaying of the prophecy to the Dark Lord, he could not help but feel that his own 'Lily' was reality, for the Lily of flesh and blood was so foreign and removed from him.

He only cried when he remembered that 'his Lily' was fictional, a product of his own imagination. His constant lament was that he had not done enough to prevent the death of the real Lily. 'Lily' was put away, shoved in a shoebox in the furthest recesses of his mind, sealed shut and sworn never to be reopened.

However, his pain was consoled in time by the advent of 'Lily' again, though a slightly different one. She realized his mistakes but loved him despite them, she knew he had as good as killed her with the relaying of the prophecy, but she forgave him for it. This 'Lily' had been Potter's girlfriend for a time, in his mind, though she had never married him or borne his child, and being Potter's girlfriend had just been her way of provoking Severus' jealousy, to ensure that he cared enough to change. Having switched sides midway through the war was enough of a change for her to reward him by her return. The situation was impossible, but it was a little more reasonable to him than continuing to pursue the course with the same 'Lily' who had followed him down the wrong path. The new 'Lily' was, he felt, a little more like the real Lily. This made her even more dear to him.

As this 'Lily' showed her face in the living room, Snape saw she had likely not gone to sleep that night. She herself was dressed, and near the door sat the black valise that had been, as of that afternoon, poised next to his own at the foot of Hermione's bed. Checking first behind him to be sure Hermione was unawakened by his departure from the couch, he took a step towards 'Lily'.

"My dear," he whispered, "What are you doing?"

"What am I doing?" she 'replied' in her own way. "Nothing that isn't necessary, I'm sure."

She obviously had been crying, for her voice was scratchy in the way it always was when she was attempting to not burst into sobs, and her tears shone in the dim starlight from the windows.

"Are you leaving me?" His voice was soft, but even so, the tone of rage and despair was evident.

"It's for your own good," the woman 'whispered', then stepped back as Snape advanced towards her. "Stay away from me!" she 'said' loudly.

"Shh! Don't wake the girl!" hissed Snape in a whisper, glancing back at Hermione—as though 'Lily's' voice would actually awake her. One of the aspects that made 'Lily' so real was because he reacted to her actions and words as he would react to any physical person.

'Lily' nodded, agreeing. "Indeed, that would be bad for both of us."

"But why are you doing this to me?" Snape asked, poignantly, "I love you."

"And I love you," 'Lily' replied gently, "But, I'm afraid I'm making your life even more miserable. I'm an impediment!"

"Don't say that!"

"But it's true!" With this, 'Lily' bent her head and began to sob. Snape, beginning to tear as well, stepped briskly towards her, but 'Lily' retreated before he could touch her. "No! Severus, you have to understand. I'm going away. Not for good, because that would be too long. But I have to go away until you either decide to find real love on earth beyond me."

"Lily, you are real to me, and I am real to you. What does it matter otherwise?"

"Because you are unhappy, Severus."

This was not easily refuted, but he tried anyways. "Am not! I'm faring absolutely divinely! When you're around, even better!"

"Words, my poor pathetic dear, merely words. You know that as well as I do."

_Even better_, Snape reflected bitterly. "But I really don't want you to go," he stated again, despondent. "If you think I have any chance with Granger--" He glanced at the girl sleeping on the couch behind him, and was instantly infuriated. "Good Merlin!" he exclaimed, still in a whisper, "If you think that I would actually be able to carry a romantic affection for one of my students, you're out of your mind!"

"Well, I'm not coming back until you've left this place," 'Lily' sulkily declared, and turned to go.

"No! Please! Don't abandon me!"

She did not look at him. "If you desperately need me, you can call me, and I shall return. Otherwise, good luck and farewell."

So 'saying', 'Lily' took her suitcase and melted through the door.

Snape, feeling haggard and worn, went to open a window. The cool breeze calmed his pained heart and quick hyperventilaiton, and he tried to get a sense of what his next romantic course would be. After a moment, he turned back to look at Hermione, who was asleep on the couch.

_She's such a child, such a young impulsive child. She couldn't really care about me. It's just an infatuation. She'll get over it and probably . . ._

He tried to imagine her future, but was strangely unable to see her getting married to anyone besides her past potions teacher. None of the Ministry dunderheads, not Ron or Harry, not one of the other Weasleys, not even someone like Draco Malfoy.

_I'm a sick and perverted old man who has nothing better to do than imagine himself getting married to one of his most promising students. _

The idea of his own pond-scumminess was enough to make him want to vomit and sob at the same time. _I am so incredibly old, and I don't even love her. What is wrong with me?_

He staggered to the kitchen, poured himself some of the white wine that he had used in cooking the crab as a sedative, and sedulously made his way up to bed.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

Hermione found him there the next morning. One of the surprising effects of the alcohol the previous night was that she woke up naturally very early, about five forty, and she had an intense amount of energy. Surprised that Snape had not already woken up and made coffee, she bounced into the kitchen to make it.

Then she remembered that she had fallen asleep with him in her arms the night prior, and her face flushed at the rememberance. _What he must think of me! _Hopefully he would only take it as a result of her tipsiness, and nothing more. _I did have a nice dream, though_, she also recalled, and smiled at the idea that Snape had been kissing her in her sleep. _Just a dream, though. He didn't do that, I'm sure. _

Having finished making coffee, drinking coffee, and eating two granola bars, she pranced up the stairs as quietly as possible to see what sort of state Snape was in, that he had not come downstairs.

She found him sleeping on top of his covers, clothes all on and boots still tight on his feet. He was positioned face-down, and covered his head with a pillow, which he held on top of his head with two grasping hands. Half-hoping he would wake up, she went and carefully undid the laces of his boots, then slipped off the heavy leather things to reveal plan black socks. Dreary and unexciting for one who half-imagined he would be wearing socks with bright colorful patterns and maybe even risque pictures.

Instead, to assuage her disappointment, she took a deep breath of the inside of his shoe and giggled slightly. It did not smell as bad as she expected; his boots merely smelled like warm leather, somewhat like a new car. It was very pleasant, in actuality. His feet were very big, she noticed, and she but her own stockinged foot up to his to compare. He had the advantage of her by a good five inches. That made her giggle as well.

Her touch made him stir, and he made some sort of noise like a dying heffalump. Quickly, she skittered out the door of her room, disapparated to the kitchen, and threw half a cup of milk and musli into a bowl. This done, she sloshed it around so it looked as though there had been more in the bowl originally, and seated herself at the breakfast nook in order to look as calm and unconniving as possible.

Snape came downstairs in the usual manner at this moment, his hand to his head and a grimace on his face.

"Good morning, professor!" exclaimed Hermione in altogether too-bright of a manner.

As expected, he had nothing to return her with more than a grunt of annoyance. He meandered to the coffeepot, poured himself a large mugful and he sat down at the table next to her.

"Did you get the cream out?" he demanded, not looking at her.

"It's right there in front of you," Hermione replied cheerfully. "But here, I'll serve you. Say when."

He put up no protest, and only said "When!" after about a quarter of the tiny pitcher of cream had been mixed into his coffee. Surprised that he took it so diluted—she always put him down as the kind who took it black--Hermione understood his idiosyncracy as he simply took his coffee and downed it without a thought, then returned to the coffepot to get another, pure black cup.

Looking slightly more alive, he asked, "Are there any Muggle painkillers in the house?"

"Yes, indeed," replied Hermione, standing. "Do you need some?"

"Rather. Got a heinous headache."

A taut counter was on the tip of her tongue, but Hermione thought better and just fetched two pills from the medicine cabinet. These were taken with a rather grateful grimace, and he swallowed them dry.

"That's bad, you know," Hermione advised him, "You ought to swallow them with coffee or, better yet, water."

"Well, I'll keep that in mind."

Despite his ill mood, he was strangely amicable that morning, and Hermione wondered why. However, she was not going to directly ask him about it, and so kept quiet.

"You want to go swimming today?" she asked eventually, taking her cereal bowl to the sink.

He groaned. "Would it be fervently disappointing to you if I said _no? _For the simple reason that I can't leave this house without risking my life?"

"Oh." Hermione paused. She still tended to forget the reason why her professor was here at some times, though she had not made this so obviously known to him until then.

"Where would we be _going_ to swim, in any case?"

"There's a pool down the block. In past summers I would go there every day, though I haven't been at all this month."

"Well, why don't _you _go? You needn't be impeded by my inability to travel."

"But I don't like the idea of just leaving you in the house all alone."

He chortled. "Afraid I'll catch my death of peace and quiet? Or is it the family silver you're afraid for?"

_He _is _quite __affable today! What has gotten into him? _A warm happiness began to radiate through her, as the suggestion _Maybe he's starting to like me _tickled her nerves.

"Definitely the silver," she replied laughingly, returning to the table.

"Drat you, Granger, you've spoiled all my plans." Mock-simpering, he turned his nose down to focus on his coffee in a brooding manner. After a few minutes of this, he looked up again, completely serious once more. "All jest aside, Granger," he suggested, "I would not be completely averse to a bit of exercise. However, I assume that as it is a community pool, it is probably overrun by children in the day and therefore not conducive to the activities of adults."

"That's true," Hermione replied, wondering where his train of logic was headed.

"Also, I am working on a certain potion, as you well know, which I would like to finish today. What you do not know about this potion is that I have structured it after the chemicals within the bodies of chameleons, which change its skin color depending on its surroundings. If it works, the potion will bring me the potential property of virtual invisibility."

"Well! That's . . . that's astonishing," Hermione replied, wondering what he was trying to say.

"It's nearly finished. I've made it once before, though it did not work longer than fifteen minutes. I was working on preparing it last night when the hot infusion I needed to combine with the already-complete cool base was burnt, no thanks to your_ distraction_. So, in essence, it should be ready today, and I believe I can make it last something about three hours, granted if my calculations are all correct."

"That's brilliant," Hermione replied, though she realized that if he got it into his head to make the potion even stronger, if he could make it last 24 hours or longer, there would be no need for him to remain in her house. This thought was saddening.

"My point is, Granger, I want to be able to test my potion, but it won't be ready in the day. Let's go at night, when no one is there, and it shall be an amusing experiment."

"But it's closed after six, you know."

"We'll go at nine, after dinner."

Hermione made a motion to protest.

"Come now, Granger—you showed disregard for the rules at school; surely it doesn't matter in these days of libertous summer. Worst can happen, someone calls the cops, we disapparate back here before their arrival with no repercussions."

_Wow, is my professor seriously encouraging me to break the rules?_

"All right, that sounds fine," Hermione replied, rather more eager than she meant to sound.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

_If you're happy and you know it please review! If you're happy and you know it please review! If you're happy and you know it and you really want to show it, if you're happy and you know it please review!_


	8. On French Stuff

_I'm not just kidding when I say that I'm not J.K._

_Thanks to my beta, _Aindel S. Druida_. You're much appreciated!_

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

**Chapter 8**

Snape was slow to leave the table, sipping his pure-black coffee with extreme care. Hermione sloshed some lemon squash into a cup, and sat with him, emulating his salacious sedulousness as he drank. The potions master was seemingly oblivious to Hermione's not-so-well-hidden admiration of him, focusing his eyes on the dark fluid in his mug. Every once in a while, he swirled it, methodical and pensive. The girl tried not to gaze beyond her own beverage, but found herself failing miserably as she was too easily captivated by Snape's visage. Every time his eyes trailed away from his drink, even if not remotely in her direction, Hermione caught herself staring, and mentally admonished herself.

The parallelism between them was frustrating to her, though she found it ironic that he, with his cold personality, protected a cup of hot drink in his spindly hands, while she, with what she considered a very warm personality, held a glass of iced beverage.

At length, Snape finally decided that it was time for him to get to 'work', and stood.

"I'll take your cup," Hermione offered, congenial, but her ulterior motive was to possibly touch his hand in passing it to her.

He said nothing, but gruffly placed the remnants of his coffee on the table, then shuffled away to go upstairs.

_Well, there's one minor plan defeated. It figures—he's had a lifetime of practice avoiding the touch of others. No doubt the events of last night were embarrassing to him. But you know, he's so surly he didn't even give me thanks. Well, that's not unexpected. I wouldn't expect Holmes to thank me, if I were Watson. _

The notion shocked her, and she almost dropped her own glass.

_I wanted to get rid of the whole Watson-Holmes scenario, but now I see that I've simply turned it on its head. To him, I'm no more than a peon—yes, I'm no more than a Watson to him! Less than, actually! And I had some crazy notion that things would be different without Ron! What a damned bloody nuisance! _

The force of this knowledge was so strong that she almost felt like crying right then and there. However, she really did not want Snape to end up coming downstairs and demanding after the problem. _Or, maybe I'm afraid that he wouldn't pay any attention, _she told herself, and felt instantly more inclined to sob at the very thought.

To quell her imminent tears, she moved to the living room to select some music. _Dookie _by Green Day seemed loud and convenient enough, so she cured her dislike of having a disturbingly quiet house.

A few hours and many repetitions later, her mood was much improved and her chance of raining tears was a much lower percentage. She had been industrious, taking the time to clean up the dishes from the night before, vacuum, wash the windows, and scrub the baseboards. She also passed the featherduster around the house, to the great amusement of Crookshanks the kneazle, who flew after her and endangered numerous lamps and vases. All this accomplished, she took a shower and then had lunch. During this time, she had heard nothing from the reclusive potions master.

Indeed, while she spent time reading and writing, she heard nothing else from Snape at all. It was not until four o'clock that he came downstairs at all, looking bland and unenergized.

"How has your work been going?" Hermione asked, setting down an unabridged _Les Miserables _by Victor Hugo.

"It's done." He refused to even turn to her, continuing to the kitchen where he opened the refrigerator.

"Really? Have you tried it out?"

He said nothing for a moment as he shuffled the contents of the fridge, searching for something moderately edible. By inopportune accident, he knocked over a half-open carton of rice, and dumped it all over the floor.

"Blast." He kicked the carton, which sent it scuttling across the kitchen floor, sending the uncooked grains whispering into the cracks under the cabinets and fridge, like a thousand tiny earwigs skittering to safety from tramping feet and valiant brooms.

Hermione watched with amusement, moving from her place on the recliner to sit on a convenient stool at the kitchen bar. "Looking for excuses to use the Hoover? You ought to have helped me clean house this morning. I made good use of it there."

"Far from it, Granger, far from it." With a brisk movement of his wand, he dispensed a well-practiced charm to gather up the rice and send it flying back into the box. A slight tap upon the box ensured that it was resealed, to prevent such an occurrence from happening a second time. He proceeded to place it back in the refrigerator while he continued foraging for foodstuffs.

"Don't put it back, my parents will be paranoid that it picked up germs or pathogens or something!" Hermione chided.

Finally, to her satisfaction, he turned his head to look directly at her. "What do you want me to do then, throw it away? Wasteful child. You said yourself the floor was clean, if you can call running that monster over the linoleum _clean. _What your parents' don't know won't hurt them."

"Point taken." She turned a page of her book, unread, for pure nonchalance's sake. _No need to make him think that I hang on his every word. _"The chicken salad I made is still in there, I assume, if you're interested."

"Did you add mayonnaise?" He found the bowl, covered in foil, and pulled the cover back a bit.

"Yes."

Incredulous, he stuck his abnormally-large nose into the opening, then instantly recoiled with a twisted face. "That you did. Enough to supplement the sandwiches of an entire battalion. Utterly revolting."

He went on to put the bowl on the counter and serve himself a large plate of it.

The situation was hilarious, but Hermione knew the results of unconstrained laughter would be less than kind, so she attempted to focus on her reading instead. This was easier said than done, however, and when Snape took a stool next to her, it was even more difficult. Stuffing a generous spoonful of the chicken concoction he so abhorred into his mouth, he ungraciously seized her book and turned it over, as he might have done to any foreign nonacademic material being read in his classroom.

She looked at him in question, and happened to glance at his neck just at the moment he swallowed. His Adam's apple--or, as she recalled, _laryngeal prominence--_bounced slightly with the motion, and she felt a strong impulse to touch it softly.

He spoke, staring at the cover of the book.

"Victor Hugo. Great man. Excellent writer. Only bit of the whole book I disliked was the discussing of the Battle of Waterloo. It's pretentious to think that anyone would want to read that much history in a novel."

"I'm at the bit about the Paris sewers. I don't think that's very engaging, personally."

"True." He turned the book to where she had left it, and shuffled through the pages she had read previously. "This is your second or third reading?"

"Second. How did you know?"

"Some of the pages you have yet to read this time around are dog-eared, but the book is not so beaten that it has been read more than two or three times in total."

"You're quite observant, Holmes."

The words just slipped from her mouth, unregistered in her brain before they spread their wings and flew. He made a shrug of indifference, not catching the miscarry. "I have to be. I would not be here today if I was not. But I hardly think that such a simple realization warrants a nickname." He gave her back the book. "Once I was working on a translation of _Les Miserables. _None of the editions out at the time satisfied me completely. The only problem is that the choleric side of me lost interest rather quickly, and although the melancholic side continues to entertain the idea of finishing my work, it would demand a great deal of time and attention—not to mention a good deal of brushing-up on verb conjugation." His shoulders slumped a bit as he set back to his chicken salad. "I hate French," he added in slight explanation.

Hermione's attention was piqued, and she laid down the book. "Why, but you've published work in the language!" she declared. "If you hate it so much, why--"

"--My mother."

"What?" Hermione turned to look at him squarely. _I can't imagine this man, being forced to write great, stupendous, under-credited works on so many subjects, in French,—oh, and teaching him to learn piano to the level that he's practically a virtuoso. How could be submit himself to it? I think he'd stomp around and make a fuss if he wasn't interested in it. I simply can't imagine it. I mean, Severus Snape, being manipulated by his mother? Harry and Ron would laugh at the idea._

"I don't want to talk about it. There's no need to rake up old ghosts."

"Okay." For once, Hermione decided to lay aside her curiosity and simply store the information. She felt like she was getting closer to uncovering Snape's internal conflict, but she did not want to spring too soon. They had the whole rest of the weekend, at least, and she was discovering lots of clues in the close contact they had. _No need to rush things, no need at all. _

"But go on, tell me more about the potion."

He eyed her, skeptical. "Are you asking out of interest or for want of conversation? If the latter, I would be obliged if you shut up."

Unfazed, Hermione smiled. _I can't let myself get hurt by what he says. He doesn't really mean to hurt, so it would be foolish to let his rubber-tipped arrows ingrain themselves in my skin. _

"Out of interest, I'm sure you know. I never ask a question for which I have no need of an answer."

"That's valid, at least for you, Granger." Though this admittance was begrudging, Hermione felt that she had passed some sort of test. Small praise was large praise coming from such a weather-beaten man. He stuffed another mouthful of salad into his mouth, swallowed again (to Hermione's entrancement), and pushed the half-eaten plate away from him. "That's disgusting stuff, Granger. Now, the thing about the potion . . ."

He went into an in-depth discussion with her that we, as observers, need not be privy to, for, as mere Muggles, we would not understand much of it anyway.

". . . and so I will test it tonight, when we go out. It ought to render me invisible for three to four hours, if my calculations are correct. If you still intend to go, that is."

"Swimming?"

"Yes, I meant that."

"Well, of course! I said nothing to the contrary, I daresay."

"Fine." He paused. "What time is it?"

"There's a clock behind you."

In response, he craned his neck, but Hermione read it: "Five to five, actually."

Disbelieving, as always, he blinked at the clock for a moment, then turned around. "I suppose I'll start dinner at seven. Does pork agree with you? That's all the fresh meat that seems to be in the—I forget what you call it. Icebox?"

"Fridge," reminded Hermione, "An icebox is highly outdated. Is that they had around when you were a kid?"

"I don't know," he replied, flustered. "It was a fridge, of course. I'm not _that_ old."

_Of course, to her, I might as well be_, he felt, with a twinge of annoyance.

"I was joking," Hermione replied with a slight laugh. "But going back to the pork, that's fine with me."

"Hmph." He shrugged himself off the bar stool, approached the kneazle dish near the pantry door, and scraped off his plate. _This salad's really wretched, could have done with a good deal more celery seed and a lot less mayonnaise, _he told himself.

"Who's being wasteful, now?" queried Hermione from across the room.

"This is frankly inedible, Granger. You need to be taught a few things about the kitchen."

"I learned all I know from my mum. Are you insulting her?" Her laugh ensured him that she did not really take offense.

"Emulation will never recompense for lack of experience," Snape replied scathingly, then whistled between his teeth for the cat-like creature.

Crookshanks came, eager, and lapped up every bit of the 'inedible' food. Snape's reaction to the cat was interestingly kind; he knelt to the animal's level and scratched it behind its ears fondly while it ate. When the kneazle was finished with his food, he licked Snape's hand and put his paws on the man's shoulders, so it looked like the pair was dancing.

"Well! I'd say he really likes you, professor!" Hermione exclaimed, leaving her book entirely and joining them on the floor. Snape simply scowled as he gently shoved the animal off the front of his shirt. Resilient, the animal leaped up again, purring and licking the man's nose affectionately.

"Mangy blasted creature, off!"

Snape shoved Crookshanks from him once again, but this time stood before the animal could make any protest. Hermione brushed the glorious coat of the animal with her fingers. "He's not mangy! I've kept him very healthy, on the contrary."

"Well," Snape began, but then said nothing else. Hermione scooped the little creature into her arms and deposited herself and it on the couch.

"You want to watch a movie? To pass the time?" she asked politely, stroking the contented animal in her arms as it nuzzled against her skimpy, girlish breasts.

_You shouldn't notice such things_ Snape mentally reprimanded himself, but shrugged. "If it suits you, I wouldn't mind."

"Okay, well, you can take a look at the video cabinet. We don't have a lot, mostly old movies, but--"

"It doesn't matter. I wouldn't know the difference, anyway." He walked across the room dully and began to pull out VHS after VHS.

"_Notorious_, _Jeeves and Wooster_, _The Lady Vanishes_, _Casablanca—_oh, I do believe I've seen that," Snape annotated as he read off the titles. "_The Beatles_? They made a movie? Well, here's _The Thirty-Nine Steps_, that's a classic, _Dinner at Eight_, _Hamlet—_too depressing by half, _The Sound of Music—_good Merlin let's stay away from that. _Who Framed Roger Rabbit_—good Merlin, who wants to know? _The Little Mermaid—_I'll refrain to say anything. By the way, Granger, you know these better than I do. Tell me what you want to watch, but I beg you, nothing animated. _Jaws—_ergh. _The Egg and I_. _Charlie Chan in London_. _The Sting_. _Strangers on a Train._ _The African Queen_. _Gone With the Wind—_oh no, far too long. _Gigi_--"

"Yes! _Gigi!"_

Snape quizzically examined the cover of the video. "What is it about?"

"Have you ever heard of _My Fair Lady_? The story about a professor bloke who picks up a flower girl off the street and teaches her to speak properly?"

"I've read _Pygmalion, _if that's what you mean."

"It reminds me of that."

Snape read the back cover of the video. "Is there a good deal of singing?"

"Not an awful lot, not as garish as other movies."

He weighed his options, then shrugged. "I'm making a mess with these things as it is. May as well put it in."

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

One hundred and nineteen minutes later, Snape protested, "That was nothing like _Pygmalion_, Granger."

Hermione shrugged indifferently.

"My experience with films is very limited, but that was a worthless piece of--one of the most worthless pieces of work I've ever seen. There was _loads _of singing. Utterly disgusting."

"Well, now you know you hate it," mused Hermione.

"The terrible thing about it, is that I don't. It had a certain charm to it, despite the silliness to it all. Endearing. Though the ending was rather anticipated. But really! How do they expect us to believe something as wild as that? He watched her grow up, and then married her. Defies the imagination."

_Gaston was was twenty years Gigi's senior, but they still . . . obviously the girl chose this movie for a reason. I would have preferred The Wizard of Oz after all this. To think she submitted me to watching this to satisfy her craving for attention. Did she imagine that I would suddenly come to some sort of realization after this, that I'd deign to approach her and suggest, say, why don't we get married? I'm nothing like Gaston, and she's nothing like Gigi. The situation is completely different. I only hope she realizes that. _

"They lived in a different time," Hermione said, echoing his thoughts, "A time when such things were not a big deal. Arranged marriages were all the rage, so Gigi's relatively lucky that she actually liked Gaston a great deal. It essentially was an arranged marriage, after all, though, considering her aunts' incessant preparations and their whole encouragement of the affair."

"I know that, Granger," Snape growled, standing up and stalking into the kitchen.

Hermione wondered if, perhaps, she should have jumped at the mention of _Strangers on a Train _instead.

_This has made him rather mad. Oh dear. Hermione Jean Granger, you're very likely in trouble. Don't push him tonight after this. _

He began to cook dinner in silence, while Hermione put on the Hitchcock movie.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

Snape liked _Strangers on a Train _much better, though thought it confusing that the actor playing Bruno had not died in the carousel scene, when Bruno the character had died.

Conversation was unneeded during the thriller, so dinner passed idly in front of the telly. Finally, with the end credits, Snape stood up and glanced out the window at the dark night, the streetlights glowing innocuously.

"I still don't understand how they can film someone as dead if they aren't using the Draught of Living Death or aren't actually dead," he declared, shaking his head. "But I suppose we could go now."

"Where?" Hermione was half-asleep.

"If you would remember--"

"--Oh, yes."

_Swimming. Eee, I wonder what he looks like in swim trunks, shirtless!_

Excitement thrust upon her with the notion, and she stood up quickly, attempting to dispel the images that filled her mind's eye lest she grin too widely.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

_I think I'm grinning too widely as I post this. Thanks for reading--if you're grinning widely for the next chapter, it shall arrive all the sooner if you review!_

_Review. It's what you do. _


	9. On Stars

_I'm not just kidding when I say that I'm not J.K._

_Thanks to my beta, _Aindel S. Druida_. You're much appreciated!_

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

**Chapter 9**

Two minutes later, Hermione was in her swimsuit, standing in the lavatory on the second floor. The lights in the bathroom were not as flattering as she might have liked, but Hermione knew she never would look like Audrey Hepburn, her personal fashion idol, in any universe. She stroked the two large Egyptian-cotton towels that were in her arms, and then knocked on the door adjoining her bedroom, which was currently relinquished to Snape's dressing activities.

"Are you ready to go?" she called, pressing her lips to the crack in the door.

"Rather," she heard him respond, muffled through the wood.

She opened the door carelessly, but was surprised by the fact that the room was devoid of any Snapian presence. Her eye caught a slight movement of fabric in her desk chair, and she realized a towel, wrapped in an oblong manner, was slumped against the back of it.

"Oh, you already took the potion?" she queried, unable to hide her dismay.

"Rather." The two repeated syllables were ironic, mocking her in her unhappiness. Hermione shrugged, attempting to cover her obvious discontent, or at least find a feasible excuse for it, but found none.

"Well, let's go, then."

Having heard this statement, Snape in his towel (1) voiced his agreement by standing, taking Hermione's wand from the mantelpiece, and advancing upon the girl. To the young witch's great surprise, she suddenly felt his warm, smooth hand in hers, but she had no time to think about the implications. The queer lurching of disapparation seized her instantly, and soon they showed themselves on the deck of the community swimming pool.

As they landed in silence, Hermione might have imagined it, but she thought Snape hesitated before letting her hand drop to her side.

There was never a more romantic night for such an exercise. The moon shone eloquently upon the absolutely tranquil water, which contained nary a ripple. Along one side of the pool ran an unsightly alleyway, which was screened by a wire fence covered by hardy climbing roses. These blooms reflected, in pearly blue sheen, the above heavenly sphere, and their arrogant perfume reflected the flower's valiant heritage in the annals of English history. The scent lasted only while she was within an arm's breadth in passing, however, and her olfactory sense was soon overpowered by the invigorating yet somewhat nauseating chlorine.

The concrete was lukewarm under her toes, a reminder of the day's intense heat, as Hermione chucked her plastic sandals onto one of the convenient reclining chairs. The towels followed these, and both witch and wizard unwrapped the towels that were around them, depositing them on the side of the pool.

Hermione could not see Snape after this, and with his silence, she might have been completely alone. Her eyes wandered to admire the sheer silken surface of the swimming pool, and she thought it tragic to disturb the serenity so soon.

Without her towel as a windbreaker, she realized the air was a bit chillier than she imagined it should be, particularly for a summer evening. To get used to it, she decided to wait a minute before entering the pool, sitting on the side. Barely had she done this when the scene was disturbed by a splash at the opposite end of the pool. Though not large, as such caused by the 'canonball' ever popular with prepubescent boys, the resulting ripples destroyed the ethereal image of silence. The little waves lapped at the pool's edge, and Hermione could see the occasional breaking at the water's surface, though she never saw Snape's physical self. At the end, a sort of cesspool of water formed, and she heard the immense gasp of air, accompanied by a slight spray of mist from what seemed a random location in the air. After a second of recuperation, the slapping of flesh against the walkway and the flush of water that was inevitable with it made clear that Snape was halfway out of the pool, likely propping himself up on his arms.

"What do you make of the results of my work?" he queried genially, as of one intelligent being to another.

"It certainly renders you quite invisible," Hermione nodded, not sure what else to say.

"Indeed, I daresay it works a good deal better than I expected."

"That's good." She thought she ought to probably go in, at this point. "How is the water?"

"Excellent, though a trifle nippy."

"I suppose I'll join you, then."

She made no attempt to be graceful as she jumped into the water, her dark blue swimsuit pinning a bit too tightly at the shoulder and crotch than it had last year and her hair flying after her. It being the shallow end, her the grainy floor met her feet with rapidity.

"Ooh." Her initial impulse was to leap out again as easily as she had entered, but she knew that would be impossible. She instead shivered in the waist-high water.

"Get wet all over, and it isn't so bad," Snape advised from behind her.

"No, I don't want to have to dry my hair when we get home," Hermione countered reasonably, but then two supple hands touched her shoulders with such a strong drive that she went underwater.

The first breath she took was full of faintly salty chlorinated pool water, and it made her gag. In an instant, she was out of the water again, attempting to inhale the fresh cool air, but then her knees buckled and she went under again. The terrible, nightmarish deprivation of oxygen struck her, her sight went dark, and all her mind was panic. A scarce second passed until the same invisible hands that had pushed her drew her out once more, and held her firmly under her shoulder blades.

"Merlin! Are you all right?"

She coughed and spewed water from her mouth. The world was black again, but she realized this was because she was unable to keep her eyes open.

"Well, if you're choking, you'll live," Snape said practically, gracefully drawing Hermione to the side. She felt her inferior brawn acutely, as she realized she was little more than a rag doll to him, especially in the water, but out of weakness she kept her eyes closed.

Her eyes opened again to feel the smooth pavement under her chin, as the racking coughing subsided. When she had regained her breath enough, she gasped, "That wasn't fucking nice!"

"I do apologize, Granger." His voice was genuine, though Hermione could not see his face for his potion's influence. "The force I exerted was far more than I intended. And rightfully, it was truly brutish. It was meant in jest, not malice, if that means anything to you."

She scowled. "I would have thought it uncharacteristic of you to jest, professor," she said dully, regaining a standing position on the side of the pool.

"True," the man admitted, "Now I suppose you won't be resuming your swim, will you?"

"I will if you promise to do my piano practice for me when we get back," the girl bargained sulkily.

"Certainly. I owe you doubly."

Hermione still hesitated. "One other contingency: will you let me dunk you?"

His barking laugh resounded over the water. "If you can."

It was obviously a challenge, and his abrupt splashing away free-style was proof of it.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

Hermione learned two things about Snape that evening. First, he was ridiculously athletic. There was no chance—until he obviously let her—that she would catch him. After swimming three or four circles around the perimeter of the pool, Hermione was full blown, and lazily let herself float on her back, looking at the sky. He then made a spectacle of panting obnoxiously just within her arm's reach, and then she knocked him lightly on the head. Upon this, he muttered something to the accord of 'Et tu, Brutus?' and sank underwater for half a minute before resurfacing with laughter some ten feet away from the site of his submergence.

The other thing she learned: he went swimming in the nude.

She had not noticed until once or twice she had caught too close up to him and attempted to grab the vestige of whatever swimsuit he had, to only feel clammy skin and get a kick perilously close to her face. It was this that aroused her suspicion, and then she realized that it was the only alternative that made sense. Of course he would look incredibly silly walking around invisible except for a pair of trunks or (dare she think?) a speedo, and Snape never looked silly. Also, Hermione remembered with some surprise that she had never been invited to go swimming with Ron or any of the other boys besides Harry, who was accustomed to Muggle things. She, the boy who lived, and sometimes Ginny or her dorm mates went out to the lake together sometimes, and it was an altogether pleasant experience, but never had any of the boys from wizarding families deigned to go along with them. Hermione thought she knew why, now. It could have been one of the age-old traditions; after all, men wore robes that were rather like dresses, relics of the Renaissance days, so why not wear the proper Renaissance costume for pleasure swimming?

Hermione thought it over, and wondered why Snape was not shocked at the proposition of swimming together, in that case. _Well, he did grow up in a half Muggle family, if rumor is anything to go by, _Hermione explained to herself. She considered her own reaction, and decided that it was a trifle more salacious than she was prepared for at this point in time, but supposed if she made no big deal of it, there would be no repercussions from her potions master. The idea that he was swimming circles around her, as brazen as Michelangelo's _David, _was positively exhilarating, and she wondered if it was for him, too.

_But darn his invisibility potion! If only he miscalculated it!_

At the point she was beginning to feel dried-out and prune-like, such as a Fox News journalist reporting in Hurricane Ike (2), Hermione emerged from the pool, wrapped herself in the towel that had absorbed the slight warmth of the concrete, and settled in one of the plastic reclining chairs compiled of smooth white plastic. There she closed her eyes and listened to the slow, tedious strokes of her previous potions master in the pool, dreaming about the idea of them continuing their exercise, only without either of them even remotely clothed and neither of them invisible.

She did drift off to sleep sooner than she intended, but was awakened by the fierce lapping of wet locks against a firm neck, and her feet received a light dew of water droplets. Her eyelids raised faintly, and she could see the faint outline of Severus Snape as he shook his head ferociously, similar to a tiger, with all the same revulsion and disgust for the clinging droplets and none of the carelessness of a dog in the same process. Apparently, his potion was wearing off, finally. She noticed with some chagrin that he already had resumed his towel, but only around his lower half. His chest was less impressive than she had hoped, rather sunken and not so broad, rather skinnier and more wiry than she imagined. As he faded into more visibility, battle scars became more plentiful and apparent. Hermione was drawn with the irresistible urge to run her hand over them and ask him for the story behind each.

To her ecstasy, he finished rubbing his hair with the second towel, shook it out one last time, and settled with it into the chair directly next to hers.

"How long did it last?"asked Hermione, bleary-eyed and very tired.

"Half an hour less than expected, but otherwise perfect," Snape gave his verdict, folding the towel with complete control and nonchalance. "Are you so tired that you're not interested in practicing piano?"

"No, no indeed!" Hermione said, sitting up with an effort, "But let's wait a few minutes. The sky is beautiful tonight."

Snape gave a brief appraising glance at the heavens and gave a snort of incredulity. "Perhaps to some aesthetic sense, but to a rational-minded man? Never do such immaterial things as stars prove to be anything more than bringers of destruction and panic among human beings."

"What do you mean?" _God, he does know his Sherlock Holmes, _Hermione pondered to herself, making another note to another common aspect between the stringent professor and the famed detective.

"Have you ever—by any random chance of fate, not by intention of course—read a horoscope?"

Hermione smiled at this. "So you don't like the stars because of the predictions made off of them? Or is it the constellations that give you pain?"

"Neither, except for the facts that people believe the predictions, and that people are such unimaginative fools to look at the stars and see nothing different from when a drunken Greek scholar saw thousands of years ago."

"Point valid. But what do _you _see, in that case?"

Snape shrugged. At this point, he was fully visible, and Hermione admired the slight reflection of the moon in his dark eyes as he gazed up at it.

"I see stars."

The conclusion was simple enough, but of course Hermione felt the need to contest it.

"No, come now! You must see something more than just that! You just criticized thousands of years of anthropologic study; you can't just say that you see stars!"

"Well, that is what I see. They may be delightful to look upon, but there is no value in walking with your nose in the air, especially if your nose is as big and cancerous as mine."

Hermione softened at the self-condemnation of his nose, but decided to not address that particular issue. "Do you say that because you want to crush your creativity, or because you don't care to use it for anything that isn't practical? I mean, you ought to indulge just a little while."

"I'm not a creative person. If you wish to have a specimen of that type, I will refer you to Miss Luna Lovegood, who has more creativity than is altogether good for her."

"But you express it in so many other ways. I know it exists in you, at least to some degree."

He slowly raised himself up and prepared to stand. "Let's not wax philosophical, Granger, it's highly annoying."

"It's annoying to you because it is the truth, and the truth one hates to accept always rankles."

He turned to look at her, and his shoulders seemed to lower just a bit more as he inhaled deeply; he seemed that he intended to reply, but thought better of it and turned to look instead at the stars.

"I see," he began carefully, obviously straining hard, "I see-" To his sudden surprise, he seemed to discover something. "I see a lil-erm, a lotus."

"Which is a kind of lily, I believe," Hermione said practically, which earned her a glare. "No, go on, keep trying. That's a start."

"I see a banana."

Hermione snorted.

"Child, you told me to try at this, but if it is purely for your amusement, I'm going back to dress."

"No, no, I didn't mean to offend you," she quickly exclaimed, joining him in sitting upright. To prove her point, she pointed, rectifying the situation with "Look, there's a beach house."

"A hat with flowers on it."

"A kitten."

"A saxa-erm-saxaphone."

"An ice-cream. Oh, and there's a bird, too!"

The pair batted new discoveries back and forth, until it seemed nothing new could be determined.

"There's a serpent, I believe."

"Granger, that's already a constellation."

Both of them were, at this time, back to reclining fully in the chairs. Finally, Snape stood up, dreary.

"Now, I must insist we go back. I am chilled."

He picked up Hermione's wand from the side table and extended his hand to help her to her feet. The girl realized exactly how tired she was, and almost resisted.

"Come _on, _Granger. If you still want me to play the piano for you."

This promise helped inspire her to stand straight despite her sleepiness, though it was also a thrill and comfort when Snape took her hand to disapparate, as short a time as it was.

They landed in the living room, and Hermione collapsed onto the couch-bed. Snape shook his head.

"You're going to regret not showering."

"Nah. I like the smell of chlorine. It puts me to sleep."

"You'll be disgusted in the morning."

"Let the morning bring what it may."

Snape sighed. "Granger, come now. Don't make me treat you like a child."

"Go right ahead."

"Twenty points from Gryffindor."

She giggled. "Term hasn't started yet, love."

It was this word, _love_, that made her jolt awake. _Did I—oh God. Please no. _

"Another fourty for insolence and familiarity, Granger." His voice was cool and slightly ironic as he said it, however. Hermione did not know if he was angry or not. In any case, she reluctantly rose and proceeded him to the bedroom, so she might get dressed in pyjamas and be downstairs for bed.

She was half-hoping that Snape would emerge after her in something exotic, like silk tops and bottoms, but he came downstairs wearing the dark grey flannel that Harry had described him wearing on a few instances when the boy had encountered the potions master in his most vulnerable moments. She had also noticed it on top of his valise once or twice, for the record, but she had discounted this knowledge in her anticipation.

"What do you need to practice, Granger?" queried Snape softly, not bothering to turn on any lights, but not looking at her as she fidgeted with her pillow. Not wanting to look completely like an inane little eleven-year-old, Hermione had left the blankets from the closet folded at the foot of the sofa, waiting for when Snape was done playing and she retired.

"Anything's fine, I guess, but some Tchaikovsky would be welcome. Maybe Billy Joel, if you could."

He played what she assumed was his favorite Billy Joel, _Vienna. _She ran through the words in her mind, but said none aloud. Her eyes drooped, but she was determined to see the end of his performance.

"You know," she said, more to keep her own attention than anything else, "I would love if you played _It's a god-awful small affair. _Just once. I'll never ask it again, if you do it now."

"You mean _Life On Mars?_" Snape stated tacitly, then began to play it.

Hermione swore up and down later she never heard a better rendition of that song than Snape created with her little upright.

However, she never really heard the end of it, as it seemed to go on and on and on . . .

Snape stopped about half an hour of playing music. He had gone from David Bowie to a few pieces by The Beatles, and then the aforementioned Tchaikovsky, as much as he could from the bits of Swan Lake he remembered. After all this, he turned to Hermione and found her sleeping.

_Stupid girl didn't remember the covers_ he thought with a sniff of disdain. He rectified this easily by unfolding them and drawing them over the sleeping girl. Hermione clutched a pillow like a prized teddy in her arms.

_Innocuous little thing. How terrible that you might even think of laying your bloody lips on hers_, he scolded himself severely. His chest heaved as he inhaled deeply.

_I miss Lily. _

Her absence did not weigh on him heavily until night, when he was accustomed to her 'presence' in bed, arms curled around him and head against his shoulder. Even if she did not exist, she prevented him from feeling lonely, and currently, he definitely felt severely forlorn indeed.

With considerably less effort than he liked, he leaned down over Hermione and graced her forehead with a brief token of wordless affection.

_Thanks for trying with my poor weary soul, my dear._

It took a tremendous amount of effort for him to ascend the stairs to his own chamber afterwards, since he suffered the intense desire to take the young girl into his arms and clasp her to him desperately.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

(1) This made me think of Larry the Cucumber so much that I had to say something about it. I can totally see Snape singing a soliloquy to the shower walls about his lack of a hairbrush.

(2) God bless those in Hurricane Ike, may they all be safe etc.

_Review. It's what you do. _


	10. On Affections

_I'm not just kidding when I say that I'm not J.K._

Thanks to my beta, Aindel S. Druida!

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**Chapter 10  
**

**Chapter 10**

The phone rang at six the next morning. Snape, already downstairs, was scared out of his bloody wits.

The shrill _brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr-ing! brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr-ing! _made his stomach jump, the hot coffee in his mouth fly of its own accord onto the floor, and the muffin in his fingers crumble a bit. Wincing at his wet-stained shirtfront, he looked around him for the source of the alarm.

With a resentful curse, he found the pastel blue plastic adherent upon the pantry wall, and he maliciously whacked the thing. As the receiver fell to the floor with a clatter, he realized that the annoying machinery was a telephone, and he quickly summoned it in time to reply the appeals of "Hello? Hello? Hermione?"

"She's not woken up yet," Snape said, masking his irritation as best as he could. "This is Professor Snape. I assume this is Mrs. Granger?"

"Oh, yes, how clumsy of me. If it isn't too much bother, would you tell her to wake up? I need to talk to her. I tried calling last night, but there was no answer. I was afraid . . . well . . ."

"She's woken up with the noise, it seems," Snape said, carefully omitting to ask what Mrs. Granger might have been afraid of happening. Hermione, as he spoke, entered the kitchen, bleary-eyed and shuffling.

"Is that mum?" she queried, pensive.

"Yes, here." He thrust the phone into her hands and went to the sink for a rag to clean up the spilled coffee.

"Hi mum," Hermione said into the receiver, sitting down at the table. "How's the baby?"

"Oh, the baby's fine, lovely. But they decided to call it Magyar."

Hermione shook her head, sighing. "Honestly? That's terrible."

"Rather. My sister wanted to call her Yolanda, and her husband wanted to call her Maggie, and so they looked through the encyclopedia for the first word that combined the two, and that's what they came up with. Now my dear, I called yesterday night; why didn't you pick up?"

"I was out swimming, I'm sorry."

"I called at ten. That late?"

"Yes."

"Where was the Professor?"

"Working on potions upstairs, I expect."

_There's no need to elaborate on the fact that he went out with me, especially since he's not supposed to leave the house, _Hermione thought.

"Well, I wanted to make sure that you two are--all right."

_Aha, so she finally got some time away from the distractions of her sister and the baby and remembered the ethical issues back home. _"Mum, what do you mean?"

"Hermione, there hasn't been any sort of—well—you're a beautiful young woman and he's all alone in the world—"

"Oh mum, come now! Be reasonable! There's been no problems of the sort whatsoever!"

"You're sure he hasn't attempted any liberties with you?"

"Yes, mum, I'm positive."

"Are you saying that because it's the truth or because that's what you want me to hear? I just learned by a chance meeting with your—with Ronald's older brother Percy, and he said with authority that you and he—I mean you and Ronald--were on the rocks."

_Oh, so that's why you're suddenly so frantic. I'm not with Ron anymore, and I guess the only reason she felt confident in leaving me here with the Professor was because I had a boyfriend. But now that she knows that I don't, she's worried that I broke up with Ron for Snape. Whoa._

Mrs. Granger interpreted her daughter's silence as affirmation of her fears. "Hermione, even if you think you are in love--"

With exasperation, Hermione broke her speech."--Mum, nothing of the sort is happening. I beg you, don't assume the worst of Professor Snape."

At hearing his name, Snape looked up from rubbing his shirt in slow circles and squinted at Hermione.

"I wish you would trust my words, and my judgment. Mum, I'm eighteen."

"And I'm a lot older than that." Mrs. Granger then proceeded to sigh. "Well, your father will be home today, in any case. I'm going to be staying the rest of the week with your aunt and uncle, since it seems they are utterly incapable of doing anything related to child-rearing. I don't think they understand what a responsibility it is; Buster seems to believe that putting the child in a set of nappies and his rocker will suffice for taking care of it all day."

"Ugh. Well, when can we expect dad?"

"About two o'clock? He'll leave at noon."

"All right. Send my love to everyone, and do bring pictures home of the baby."

"Of course, dear. Talk to you later."

"Cheerio."

Hermione carefully laid down the phone to meet the stony stare of the potions professor.

"Granger."

He said nothing else. Under his scrutiny, Hermione was extremely discomforted.

"What is it?" she barked crossly, sitting down at the table next to him. In response, he stood up and regarded her with a steely eye.

"It would seem that we're in trouble," he replied gently, but the venomous resiliency of his voice assured her that he was irate, only making the greatest of efforts not to flame up in his own ire. It scared her; she had seen him rant and rage in class for so many years, but this particular tone was reserved for only the worst of his tempers, and she had seen it but rarely in class.

"We're not," she replied, rather more meek than she intended to sound. _I really don't know him as well as I thought I did_, she thought to herself, panicked.

"Merlin's arse."

His face, hitherto scorning the wrinkles of anger, now embraced them wholeheartedly as his skin contorted—his brow furrowed, his large nose scrunched in disdain, and his lips pursed.

"Thanks, Granger. Thanks a whole bunch"

So saying, he swept out of the room, his walk almost as brisk as a run.

"Wait," Hermione called feebly, but he was already up the stairs. The door of her room slammed, and the sounds of drawers thundering open was heard by her disconsolate ears, albeit muffled.

_What happened to him?_

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

_What the HELL did she think she was doing, letting her parents just leave without reminding them of the home situation? Fuck . I'll bet she planned it. Of course she planned it; what was I thinking to admit myself to the house of the girl who left me to die—who could have at least attempted to save me in my distress—I _did _tell that to McGonagall when she first suggested coming here, actually. _

At this point, Snape closed the door loudly and leaned against it with bitter apathy.

_Considering how valiantly she tried to get me here, I'll wager McGonagall's in it, too. It's a conspiracy. They're all against me. McGonagall, Granger, Shacklebolt, Weasley . . . they're all against me. They thought they had gotten rid of me, and now that I've sprouted up like a bad penny, they have to come up with another plan to get me out of their way. They'll start with my reputation, then it will be my life. Hell, I'd better check on my Gringotts account—hopefully they haven't gotten to the stage where they've drained it and added it to the coffers of the Ministry's deficit fund!_

Tears emerged victorious from the impossible battle with his inner strength, despite the strong testudo of his will. He put his hands over his face, hiding it from the invisible presence he felt near him.

_Lily, Lily, I so want you!_

At his call, he 'felt' a hand on his shoulder, and he drew his hands down further on his face just enough so that he could 'see' his 'Lily'.

"I came," she said, through the medium that was his own imagination. "I heard you, and I came."

She looked, nonetheless, rather displeased.

Without a word, he clasped the bathrobe on the back of the door around its waist, and presumably within it also the pillar of air that represented his dear lost love, and he sank down upon his knees to weep against her.

He felt the sleeve-cuff of the robe against the back of his head, and allowed his imagination to filter it as being the hand of the woman.

"How you suffer, how you suffer," mourned 'Lily' dispassionately. She was trying not to be too cold, he could tell, but still she was frowning.

"My dear." He whispered, eyes closed, smelling the heavenly violet-auburn scent of the bathrobe, pretending it was her own. The fact was, he could not remember what Lily really smelled like, so honestly whatever was feminine and delicate sufficed for him.

"Severus."

He felt her touch on his shoulder and his subconscious reflected, _That wasn't the bathrobe that time. _Though, he was not truly in a place to know, for his better judgment was temporarily suspended.

"I have to get out of here, Lily." _Yes_, he mentally continued, _ I'll have to get out of here. I can't bear to bed in the house of my enemies, no matter if it is just Hermione or both of her parents as well. I don't know how many of them are in league, and I don't want to know. I simply can't put up with this, not for the rest of my life . . ._

"Then come," she 'said', she who could read his mind, and she kissed him on the top of his head with welcome relief. "I'm glad you have come to a decision. I agree with you."

"That's all I need," he said with a sigh. "I can't stay here."

He smiled at her, knowing that they were going to go to America.

"I've chosen the perfect house there, Severus," she 'said,' "The perfect adorable little house in New England. It's hidden away, on a private road, and nobody comes around, ever. You can do as you please, magicwise, since the regulations on what one does in their own house is their personal business, in the States. There's no communistic monitoring of everyone's doings and comings and goings like there is here. America is capitalist. You can play the stock market and charm yours to go up. Won't that be lovely?"

"Intensely," he breathed, inhaling 'her' scent even deeper and clasping what ought to have been her legs even more. With another sigh, he stood, wrapping his hands around her waist in the most loving of manners.

"We'll have a dog. A darling little dog, that will run and fetch the paper from the drugstore every morning, carrying the coin in its mouth and replacing it with the roll of print, so you'll be able to read it to me when we have our coffee. And we'll both have oatmeal, every morning—mine with brown sugar and yours with milk. Then you can go to work in your study or your lab, and I'll go riding on a bicycle around the country."

"Aye," he said softly, deciding to voice the rest of the dream aloud. It would make it more real, somehow. "We'll have simple lunch and then go out on a walk together in the forest. Sometimes we should go camping, take a few blankets and a wire to make a tent out in the trees, and we can fall asleep looking out at the stars."

_Asleep together. Stars. Hermione! _

His attention to reality waxed as he heard the creaking of the stairs. At once, he realized with disgust and revulsion that the bathrobe he had been caressing was indeed his young hostess', _the dirty vixen. _

Hurrying across the room, Snape began to shove his clothes abruptly into his light valise, with much more untidiness than was his custom. He typically was very careful about folding, but in his wrath, fear, and haste, he was not apt to the task.

_Oh Merlin. _

Something he had always prided himself upon was his propriety, especially where students were concerned. There was so little for him to be openly proud about in his life, anyways, that the smallest things he accomplished and retained were greedily protected from being sullied. Unfortunately, this situation was a dire one, and he felt that all his positive efforts over the years were shattered.

_Oh Merlin. I can't bear this._

"I'm hurrying, Lily," he said aloud, though she had long left and disapparated to America.

His stomach was convoluted and constricted, and he felt the strong inclination to vomit.

_This anxiety will kill me if the Granger conspiracy doesn't. Or, in the case that Ronald Weasley gets wind of the situation, I can expect his kind token of affection upon my neck just where Nagini's fangs once met my skin._

Consciously, he paused in his movements and traced the perceivable scar located perilously above his jugular vein.

_I almost wish I had not prepared for the eventuality of my death. I almost wish I had died. A passive suicide would have been better for my reputation, and they wouldn't be putting me in peril now. I am henceforth tarnished-_

There was a timid knock upon the door.

_Bloody Granger, coming to muck up the water just a bit more. _

He stiffly assumed as angry an emotional stance as possible, to ensure that he would not break down in front of her. _It'll be my ruin to come to tears at her feet. It'll be evidence to my own depletion. I'll be as hardy as possible. _This was best achieved by churlishness; his weakness was best hidden by ire.

"Keep out, Granger! You've done enough as it is!"

"Can I ask you at least what you're doing?"

Her voice cracked at 'at least', but he refused to relent.

"Talk to me, if you must, from where you are. And, in answer to your question, I am preparing to leave this house."

He had not locked the door, and Hermione tried the handle. It yielded under her touch.

"You can't leave," she said, her eyelids drooping. "But where do you think you would go?"

"Anywhere," he snarled, paying her no heed. "I can live on the streets. I can disappear in the Americas. The threat of being sent to a living hell in Australia won't be present in another country. I don't honestly know why I didn't pursue such a course before. Much more intelligent than sitting here, waiting like a dog. If I'm on another continent, presumably dead, there will be no need for all this trouble on your part and everyone who has been working to clear my name."

_I promise I won't be any more trouble_, he said in his mind, just barely restraining from saying the words aloud. _I'll be getting out of all of your lives, I'll never be back. Don't bother with trying to hunt down and murder the wretched old potions master, he wants nothing with you or your kind any more. Oh Merlin! Please! _

"Don't go," Hermione pleaded, realizing that he indeed had a point. "It would not be the grateful thing to do."

_Maintain your righteous anger, Snape, don't let her deceiving ways wile you into staying. She wants your head, your cock, your soul's sacred devotion. You've been a fool, Severus Snape, a damned dangerous fool, letting yourself be cooped up with this flaming estrogen and furious lust . . ._

"Hang gratitude. Write McGonagall now and demand that she stop pursuing the clearing of my name. Tell her I'm leaving the country. Tell her I'm dead. Tell her bloody anything."

_Tell her I raped you for all I care. No, perhaps that would be the worst case scenario; the Granger girl might spur them to searching for me even throughout the world for taking away her purity . . . if it's not been taken already . . . but she could still claim that she was a virgin pure even if Weasley or whatever other bull-headed punk stole it from her, since she will be easily assumed to be the victim . . ._

"Tell her that you're in love with me?"

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_That really was a stab in the dark, _Hermione thought to herself. _But, it seems to have been just the thing._

For a moment, he softened, his jaw unclenching, his muscles untensing, and his graceful, artful hands dropping limply to his sides.

"Tell her—that I'm in love with you?" He asked almost politely, slightly puzzled, and most bewildered. "I'm sorry, Miss Granger, but I haven't the slightest notion of what you're talking about. I've never been in love with anyone, save her of whom my affections have been long made notorious. I—I don't love a single living soul, Granger."

"Well, I'm sorry," Hermione said softly, "But, you know," she went on, gaining courage, "It's going to really seem that way if you leave so suddenly. I don't think staying is going to make things any worse, whereas my parents will definitely think the worst of you if you just disappear, despite all my entreaties."

_He knows I'm right, look at his face. He's getting angry again._

"Granger, I understand you've gone through life believing that you're the brilliant one, since that's what every fool's told you, but despite this self-cultivated egotism, believe it or not, there are others whose mental faculties you merely emulate."

_Oh, god, that was mean. I know he's just being stubborn, but still._

"That is neither here nor there, Professor," Hermione replied, accepting the fact that he wanted to be on most formal terms currently.

"Yes, it is, Granger," he protested. "You've always seemed to be one above the ordinary to me, certainly, but this episode has certainly proven you to be no more than the worthless skanky bimbos who push their teachers into giving them good grades in exchange for certain liberties. I, for one, am immune to such entreaties, even from the best." Here, he shoved his valise shut with a purposeful bang, drawing the locks tight and then lifting the case in one hand. "I wish to bid you a very good day, Miss Granger. Thank you so much for your _hospitality_."

He stalked out, and down the stairs. Hermione watched him for a moment just to be sure he was serious, then, frantically, she apparated down to the front door and stood in front of it.

"You can't," she demanded fiercely.

"Why the hell not?"

She did not have a glib reason, and, smirking with superiority, Snape pushed her away from the door.

"Goodbye, Granger."

He put his hand to the knob and pulled the door open.

A bundle of red hair and dirty clothes upon the doorstep met their eyes.

"Ron!" exclaimed Hermione, horrified.

"Weasley," Snape coolly declared in the same instance.

They looked to each other.

"Help me, please?" Hermione asked, her Nutella eyes appealing to his best graces.

With a scowl, Snape complied.

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_Review. It's what you do. _


	11. On Escape

_I'm not just kidding when I say that I'm not J.K._

By the way, I am not answering reviews right now. Don't take it in offense. I merely am too tired. I still love getting them and still love reading them. I just have too little energy to expend, and I'm trying to spend as little time on the computer as possible for many reasons. So please keep them coming, because they make me smile and want to keep writing, which is important right now that I'm just so busy and in relatively poor health as a consequence of too much business stuff. All I really want to do when I get home these days is sleep or read, so the fact that you're getting any chapters at all is a very tremendously amazing thing. Thanks so much for reading, and do review!

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**Chapter 11  
**

Ron had not had a worse day for a while. His mum and sister had skipped off to church in the morning, to pray for God to keep Fred's poor soul, and his father was busy in his study, leaving Ronald to mope about the kitchen in anger.

The sullen mood that affected him since Hermione's dumping him had not lifted, and everyone was so caught up in their own lives that they did not notice in the least. If they did, they pretended to not notice.

_That's what bloody sucks rocks in a big family_, Ron thought to himself, irritable as he roved around the kitchen, looking for any food to stuff down his gullet, to fill the inevitable hole he felt in his heart.

A loaf of bread soon disappeared, followed by several biscuits from the jar and a plum cake that his mother had made for company that night. Feeling his gut heave, Ron left the table without bothering about the crumbs remaining on his shirt, and he sauntered to the floo to contact Harry.

Receiving no answer at Harry's new London flat, Ron decided to go out and walk out the pain of an overextended stomach and constipation. A mile of country road, and he reached a small but bustling town, whereupon he entered the first tavern he saw, already hungry again.

A few plates of chips later, Ron was seriously wondering if he ought to stop Quidditch. _The game is rather stupid, after all. That's why she dumped me. _

He had been thinking of reasons as to why she had decided he was not good enough to be at her side ever since he had left her house that day.

_It's the red hair._

_She's not ready for that kind of commitment._

_It's the fact that I've been her friend for so long, like Harry said._

_She still is in love with Krum._

_It's the fact that I'm not smart._

_She's thinking that she's taken a fancy to girls._

So on and so forth, etcetera, etcetera.

In the middle of his musings, a bunch of sixth-years he happened to know walked in and asked if he wanted to go bar-hopping with them. Desperate to take his mind off of Hermione, he heartily agreed.

He did not recognize much more after that; once they were in London, everything was a haze. Booze—and lots of it—was consumed by the tragic young hero, not to mention harder stuff.

It is inconsequential how he found his way to Hermione's doorstep but, when he landed there at about three in the morning, it was as good as any other place to sleep.

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_Fucking, fucking Weasley._

Snape was secretly getting more and more desperate to get out of the house, but he could not rightly just disappear and leave Hermione with this potentially dangerous and likely unsober boy.

_I fucking hate these god-forsaken teenagers. The world continually revolves around them and their problems—problems from which only adults can salvage their filthy hides. I'm fairly certain I never was this troublesome in my youth, not this much anyhow. _

He had helped Hermione drag in the stone-drunk boy and lay him on the couch, a plastic market bag near his head lest he intended to throw up; he smelled like vomit, liquor, and urine.

Hermione, _the coddling wench_, was asking him a question.

"Professor, what do we do with him?"

_Apparently she's never been so near anyone so inebriated. Well, if Weasley's prone to doing it once, it's likely he'll do it again, so she better get used to it if she wants to maintain his friendship in any manner._

"You leave him there and don't bring him any food when he wakes up—the very sight of it will make him spew." He paused, then continued, "He still might, even without provocation."

"Nasty."

Hermione sat down on the opposite couch, weary, and she regarded her potions master with moderate curiosity.

"I'm supposing, in your time, you've seen plenty of such situations?" she asked delicately.

"An overabundance," he admitted, teeth grinding. With that, he bent to grasp his valise from the floor.

"I suppose you might also be able to commiserate with Ron, then?"

A wave of stark recognition struck him in the stomach, and Snape felt suddenly winded at this simple set of words.

_Why, she did to Weasley just as Lily once did to me! She threw him over—the lifelong friend of a thousand days—for him whom she has ostensibly hated for every one of those days! _

The notion made him feel even more nauseated.

_I'm the James Potter to her. What a disgusting, disgusting set of irony. _

At once, following this connection, more and more links to his past and their present situation began to form rapidly.

_She's a muggleborn, like Lily. Befriended the first wizard that showed her any attentions, that's Ronald Weasley (and Harry Potter as well, but he's rather irrelevant here). She's a 'nice girl' of average middle-class family, like Lily. She's quite intelligent, as was Lily, though Granger's far more pedantic than Lily ever was. She gets along well with her female peers, but seeks the company of the boys more often—as Lily did. One of the primary attractions to Lily that I had was her hair . . . and, no, well, I can't say I am not fascinated by Granger's, but I wouldn't necessarily call it an attraction, per se. I knew them both only as teenagers—Lily because she died so young, Granger because she hasn't fucking grown up yet. Thank Merlin that Granger has not Lily's eyes, but then, she's got quite an effective set of her own. Both of them use these to their best advantage over me, and usually win. They both have frail, elegant body frames, and have an aura of timelessness about them. I feel in similar ways around them, sort of; I want to teach them to improve themselves and perfect their perfection . . . Merlin! I'm not going to say that Hermione Granger is perfect! She's a devilish whore whose main intention is to destroy me! _

_But then, keeping that in mind, Lily _did_ succeed in destroying me, as well. _

His musings were broke when he realized that Hermione was addressing him.

"Professor? Severus?"

He reeled at her, snarling. "Don't you _dare _infringe upon my rights so much as to call me anything less formal than _professor_, child! You haven't the wits, qualifications, nor the application to even deign to call me by my Christian name!"

She looked quietly down at her feet in remorse for some moments, then she raised her eyes again.

"Well, you didn't really answer my question, and I am a bit irritated."

Snape gave an expression of exasperation. "What is it that you were so dying to know?"

"If you know what it's like to be . . . well, if you can empathize with Ron in his time of hardship."

_How bloody dare she. She knows very well what she's doing._

"His time of hardship—if you mean his excessive drink—yes, I have prior knowledge of his situation. Anything else, no. I am nothing like Weasley in any way."

He grasped his valise tighter, and walked towards the door. "I'll be leaving now, Granger. Good-bye."

_And good riddance._

Again, he headed towards the door, scowling and feeling intensely sick of the whole situation.

_America. Lily. Our beautiful cottage near Cape Cod. _He decided that he wanted to reside either in Cape Cod or Boston, depending on which he liked better. _Perhaps we'll find ourselves a place on an island, I've heard the small islets on the east shores of the States are very beautiful, painters apparently go there all the time. They might be more south, though. Well, I'll travel a bit before settling down. But just keep your mind on that, Snape, keep thinking of that._

His hand touched the doorknob, but in the same instant, the doorbell rang. Hastily, he withdrew his hand, as though the metal had burnt him.

"Who's that?" queried Hermione, standing and running to the door, face ashen. Frustrated, Snape threw down his valise with a clatter and crossed his arms over his chest.

_I ought to just leave. It's likely just the postman._

"Oh! Professor McGonagall!"

_Bloody fuck. She summoned reinforcements. They don't want me leaving, they've got me here and I'm doomed. _

"How are you, Miss Granger?"

"Oh, fine, thanks, and yourself?"

"Excellent, excellent. Hello, Severus."

"Hello," he snarled in reply. _McGonagall seems quite in the festive mood, though. Likely it's just for show._

Despite the heat of summer, here she was, draped in her regular old-fashioned clothes and woolen tartan, a proud declaration of her heritage.

"Hmph." The woman adjusted her glasses and looked curiously at him. "You seem well, Severus, compared to when I last saw you. Put a little bit of weight, it seems."

_Fuck, just leave me alone._

He said nothing aloud, but made a mental note to remember to go on a strict diet whenever he got to be under his own care and provision once more.

"Not speaking, today?" McGonagall said, as though chiding a child, "Tut tut, Severus—when I come to bring you good news."

"What sort of news do you consider 'good news', McGonagall?"

_Think of Lily. Think of America. Think of a cottage and a dog and a bicycle and a forest. Think of joyful work. Think of being alone without any blasted children to teach. Think of a beautiful life in a new world._

"Well, it seems that we're finally past all the legal processes to establish a change of reputation for you, Severus. We've compiled all the evidence, and now we must meet with Wizengamot in two weeks. There's a good chance that you will be free as soon as that."

_As SOON as that? I've barely spent one week here with Granger and that's been terror-ridden! _

The idea of remaining any longer in that house was dreadful.

"McGonagall," Snape began, as civilly as he could muster under the situation, "I am eternally grateful for everything you have done to establish a cleared reputation for my person" (though he said this with bared teeth) "but it seems to me that there is no reason for it at all. I have decided to leave England. My future destination is unknown, but I am sure-" (he barely restrained himself from saying 'sure as hell') "-ly not going to be staying in the Unite Kingdom any longer."

For a moment, McGonagall said nothing. Like a person caught by camera in the middle of speech, her mouth was open in such a way that one might suspect she was attempting to catch flies. Reminded suddenly of her unladylike appearance, she rectified this by snapping her lips shut and pinching them together in a prudish fashion.

_She lacks Albus' ability of foresight, obviously. And a good thing too—what we least need at Hogwarts is another few decades of Albus' disgustingly socialist methodism. _A slightly tainted smile emerged in his thoughts as he recalled with relief, _Well, no matter, I won't be there to endure it._

"Severus," the old woman began, attempting to be diplomatic and peaceful as possible, "That is simply impossible. Have you arranged for a traveler's visa? Do you intend to emigrate somewhere in particular? I suppose you have not. Young man, you simply cannot just pick up your case and drag yourself to another location on the map. It's simply not done. It's against all codes and regulations-"

"-Damn you, you two are just alike!" sneered Snape, taking offence at the 'young man' bit of her assertion. "Rules! Rules! Goddamn blasted fucking rules! You think I give a damn?"

"You watch your phraseology, Snape!" shrilly exclaimed McGonagall, letting loose her own tigress' temper. "You are the only male present! Now I demand for an explanation! Miss Granger," she turned partly to Hermione, though keeping a skeptical eye on the potions master, whom she suspected of wanting to flee. "Hermione, what has been going on?"

Snape's voice raised in anger, and an accusatory finger raised to indicate his hostess. "_She_ has been attempting to seduce me since I first stepped in the door of this house!" he cried defiantly, acknowledging his overstatement but not considering it a great moral failing.

"Were you seduced?" McGonagall asked with some graveness, not wanting to believe such a thing from her prize pupil.

Hermione's rebuttal was fierce under the examining eyes of her favorite teacher. "Me? Seduce you?" she scoffed, throat tightening at the disapproval she met. "Nothing of the sort!"

Snape was unfazed. "And, what is more, she has convinced her parents into believing that I fucked their teenage daughter while they have abandoned us together for the weekend! My sense of dignity has been scarred—my personal dignity! They won't trust me an inch, and I'll be regarded with suspicion and hatred as soon as they arrive. All my propriety has been relinquished!"

_I had to get the truth out there. Even if it won't do me a spot of good, McGonagall might like to know the ins and outs of things. See exactly what kind of alliance she's walked into. _

Shocked, McGonagall shoved her glasses further up her nose. "Your parents left you alone together for the weekend?" she addressed Hermione, who nodded with glassy eyes.

"Yes, but they expect me to take care of myself—I'm eighteen for crying out loud!" she exclaimed with passion.

"That's exactly the problem, Granger—eighteen."

_You're young, you're pretty, and you've a nice pair of melons. And you have a natural intelligence that would make any pedant turn. It's natural that parents would assume the worst of a thieving, conniving, crooked man like me. Not to mention how old I am._

The unphrased truth rankled even more than these thoughts however—_dammit, I am rather attracted to you. But not so much that I'd forfeit whatever shreds of my reputation and sacrifice it to your unscrupulous little clasping claws. _

At this point, their argument was interrupted by the stench of stomach acid and the gasping breaths of the boy on the couch.

_Shit, there he blows._

"Great Scott!" exclaimed McGonagall, who was completely unprepared for Weasley's advent. She stalked over to the couch and looked down disapprovingly over the heinously effected boy. "Ronald Weasley, what are you doing here?"

"Spewing his stomach contents on the floor," observed Snape disinterestedly, then added, "The reason he's likely sick is because our lovely Miss Granger here gave him the signal to shove off two days ago. Doubtless he's been inebriated ever since."

McGonagall looked with some suspicion to Hermione, who could only affirm this truth. With some hesitation, the girl sat down next to Ron and began to massage his shoulders. The older woman, thinking, quickly cast a cleaning spell on the carpet and bit of the couch afflicted by the bombardment. When she had concluded this procedure, she looked to the young witch.

"Miss Granger, I am not going to ask for specifics as to the whys and wherefores of your estrangement from Mr. Weasley, but I must ask one thing: was it with the intention of perhaps becoming involved with Mr. Snape?"

"Professor!" exclaimed Snape, but met with a glare from McGonagall.

"If you are leaving the country, you are no longer employed by Hogwarts. You cannot be a 'professor' again until you find suitable employment in a college or university where your services are required for such a post," the woman said with severity, "but please, Miss Granger, answer my question."

Hermione looked from one teacher to the other, lifted her hands to the sky, and prepared to answer.

She was saved from this by a heavy sob from Weasley, and hastily Hermione moved to stand up, giving him more space. The boy sat up on the couch, his face ashen, his eyes bright and fiendish, and the corners of his lips turned down dramatically. Tears rained down his face, smearing the stubble of an unshaved two-day beard.

"Hermione," he said softly, "How could you do this to me?"

_He looks a perfect imitation of me, once upon a time, _Snape nervously was reminded, but he changed his thoughts very quickly as he realized opportunity seizing him.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

Hermione decided that the boy looked just too pathetic. The horror of having done this to another human being, however, distressed her greatly. _My god. Did he become this way just because of my separation from him? Oh god. God. I can't have been so cruel. But I was. And I knew he would suffer inwardly for it, but this is worse than I imagined. My God. This is terrible for him._

"Oh, Ron," she said so sadly, sitting down next to him and drawing him into a sisterly embrace. He would have none of it, however, and after the initial contact of her breasts at his ribcage and her arms around his shoulders, he shoved her recklessly away from him.

"Don' bother me," he said in such a lackymorose manner that McGonagall herself looked pained. "You don' wan' me? Fine. You don' ged me. Lavender'll take me. Lavender. Lav-lav. She act'ly lobed me. She callbed me 'Won-Won'. I' was cute. I miss 'er."

Hermione's eyes filled with tears at his desultory attempts to comfort himself, his pathetic nature, and his stubborn refusal for any comfort from her.

"Oh, Ron, I didn't want to do this to you!" she said, quite overtaken by the onslaught. Shaking his head, eyes squinted together, weeping, Ron lay on the shoulder of the couch. He was trying to compose himself in some manner.

"T's all rite, 'Mione, you can'd control your feelings, can you?" he spluttered, though his words were muffled in the couch.

"Here, Mr. Weasley," McGonagall suggested, planting a crisp cambric handkerchief in the hand of the inconsolable adolescent. "Miss Granger, come over here a moment."

It was a demand, and so Hermione stepped away from the scene of her ex-lover's grieving to address her teacher.

"Miss Granger—Hermione," McGonagall began in a whisper once they were somewhat beyond Ron's earshot, "I can't honestly say I did not expect something like this to occur. It seems that you were too easily satisfied with Ronald, and I condone your actions in detaching yourself romantically from him. However," she continued with graceful perplexity, "His reaction is intimidating and violent. I suspect that his parents and family have been neglectful of him in his time of crisis, and perhaps even his bosom friend Harry has been unable to corral him into docility. What must be accomplished is to find a way to both appease his damaged pride and also find him something new to attach himself to. His suggestion of Lavender Brown might not be a bad one. What do you think?"

"I think, firstly, that the other dominant male in the room has taken the opportunity to give us the slip."

For, indeed, Severus Snape and his valise had disappeared.

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_Review. It's what you do. _


	12. On Goodness

_I'm not just kidding when I say that I'm not J.K._

I will reiterate:I am not answering reviews right is very busy, and I am extremelyfortunate to be able to produce this chapter as it so much for reading, and do review! It makes me more happy than I can express in words.

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**Chapter 12**

Snape was a sneaky bastard, but by no means a fool. When Weasley started distracting the women, he began to think furiously.

_What do I need to do to get out of here? I suppose eliminating myself from this scene is a priority. However, I cannot use magic once I am out of this house because of the muggle-ridden territory--it's fairly evident that I can make magical preparations here, however. Well, what do I need to prepare? This is answered with the answer to the question: What process do I intend to carry out to get out of the country? _

This took less time to think than it did to read. As he pondered, he watched the interaction between the three Gryffindors and felt, with some apathy, _It seems that whatever choice I make 'with' them, I'm outnumbered three to one. I'm definitely on my own. _

His wand was heavy in his pocket, and he fingered the dark ebony with uncharacteristic fondness, while maintaining his mien.

_I know what to do._

The vestige of a plan formed in his mind, he quietly picked up his valise and disapparated.

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He showed up, by intention, in his adopted bedroom, which after he left it would surely be relegated back to his hostess. _The cellar-creeping, potato-pinching, mouse-molesting whore. _By now, his insults towards Hermione were becoming more and more nonsensical.

With a slight grimace at this realization, he set himself to the task of disguising himself. Stepping into the lavatory, he found a pair of scissors and gave himself a very hasty haircut. The result was rather against his taste.

_God, that looks like horse shit._

He had not cut his hair so close in years. The dark black ringlets, relieved of six inches of fine but coarse hair, curled under his ear attractively. Though it was shaggy, it was manly.

Downstairs he heard a door open and Hermione yelling, presumably for him. He knew he had a very short time.

_I have two options--either be as unostentatious as possible, or the exact opposite. _He mused about it for a minute. _I have always favored the approach of waltzing right in as though I'm one of the most necessary fixtures in the place, _he remarked to himself. _It's harder to pull off right but far more sure of the results._ He therefore set to work.

A bottle of tanning lotion--_since when does the Gryffindor use such stuff?--_was effective at making his skin less painfully wan. With a flourish, he issued a decent splatter of bleach on his head, whitening his hair a great deal. He also administered some on a magically-grown mustache and eyebrows, which he proceeded to brush in a carefully haphazard way until he resembled Nigel Bruce. Clothes changed from black trousers and pullover to a starch-white shirt, taupe slacks, and a camel sport coat. A sock was turned into a dark navy striped tie, and an abused slipper was formed into a neat Panama hat. A bottle of cheap watered-down perfume was temporarily changed to an expensive-smelling and rather overpowering cologne, which he spattered liberally behind his ears at at his wrists.

_I seem to reek of money, _he considered with a bitter smile. _The nose, however, is a problem._

He tried several methods of changing it, but always it seemed to bulge menacingly. He turned it to his advantage. _It doesn't matter if it makes a scene; my name is Alviro Manzanares--maybe Eduardo, on consideration--and I'm a Mexican-American who has done very well in the sales of used cars. I am returning from a trip to Europe to look at the dingy things; I live in New York on El Conadore St. and I like to talk about it with the greatest fondness. I like my tequila cold and hard and my women plump and soft. While I am getting on in age and am getting a gut, I cannot fail to win any woman with my simple, honest, but charismatic personality, and thus I find it easy to convince any I want to spend the night with me. _

For good measure, he used disillusionment charms to make him appear heavier, with a moderate paunch overflowing his belt and thick jowl.

In front of the mirror, he practiced his long-abandoned talent for accents, finally finding just the perfect blend between Mexican and American to be feasible. _Loud, but soft. He is a man of direct and evident contradictions--garrulous yet quiet, enthusiastic yet apathetic, lazy and yet industrious. _

Feet running up the stairs accosted his attention, just as he finished crafting a snazzy cane out of an umbrella and converting his various identification cards to fit his new looks. Thus, with a blink he banished all evidence of his work. However, it took slightly longer than he calculated to change his suitcase to one of weather-beaten but expensive quality, littered with stickers of several random South American countries. As a result, he had no time to disapparate before he heard the turning of the doorknob, and he just barely removed himself to under the bed.

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Hermione was on the verge of crying with sincerity. Scanning her bedroom, she could easily see that nothing had changed since Snape had set upon it like a storm, packing his things and leaving everything else cockywhompus. _He isn't here, either. Of course he wouldn't be._

From the time she had coolly accepted his disappearance, she had been harboring the foolish hope that he had not left. However, now she saw her wishful thinking for what it was.

"Well," she said as practically as she could muster in front of McGonagall. "I guess he's gone for good."

The Headmistress of Hogwarts nodded in agreement. "What an ungrateful man."

There was a strained silence between them. It died when, McGonagall asked, with a grandmotherly grace that she only imparted to other Gryffindors, "But, Hermione--dear!--would you _really_ have pursued him romantically, given the choice and his willingness?"

Hermione did not know whether the truth was the best option or the worst; however, as an honest soul, she opted on candor. "Well, yes."

McGonagall's slowly-drawn inhalation of breath said her patience was tried. With such a reprimand to her proclamation of affection, Hermione sank onto her bed, which was neatly made and smelling of the Professor.

"Yes, yes, and yes." Again and again she said it. "Yes. Yes. What do you want me to say? I'm in love, Professor!"

Again, the grandmotherly side of McGonagall decided to take precedence. With a sad and bittersweet smile, she sat next to her favorite student.

"Really?"

Hermione was affronted. "How can you ask that as you see me? My tears are eminent, my head hangs in sorrow, and you ask me if I'm serious? If I'm serious?" she repeated again, trying to disguise the self-proclaimed fact that she was about to burst into sobs.

McGonagall, taken aback, readjusted her physical position and her priorities. "My dear, I am not intimating--I do not mean to--but you _are _only young, after all. How would you know love if it whacked you over the nose with a newspaper, if the case might be?"

The soft, glassed, luminous appearance of Hermione's eyes testified to her own personal honesty. "I've read of it often."

This put McGonagall in a huff. "Hmph! Austen, Trollope, and the Brontes are, by no means, rules to apply to your own life! Their measures are no more than fairy tales of romance, entirely crafted on the suspense of impossible obstacles and resolved only with _deus ex machina_ endings. No story of a man or a woman in real life even vaguely resembles such over-glorified tripe!"

"Have I yet compared Snape to Mr. Darcy, to Daniel Thwaite, or even to Edward Rochester?" queried Hermione with some impertinence. "I never have said anything of the sort! And I do not compare my situation with that of Jane Eyre, Lady Anna, or Elizabeth Bennett, for that would be the mark of a foolish girl indeed. I fancy that I'm not foolish, and I fancy you don't think I am either--therefore you might take back that supposition immediately."

Contrite, McGonagall nodded. "No indeed, Hermione, I've never meant to call you foolish. But you must understand what I'm trying to say."

"And what is it that you're trying to say?" The younger witch's tone was frigid enough to be that of him she so desired.

"You're young and prone to fancy. That is what I am trying to say. You cannot, will not, so 'love' Severus Snape. I can not allow it, and I will not allow it. It is simply indecent."

"Why? Why indecent?"

"Hermione, you are scarcely eighteen! He is nearly forty!"

Acquiescing to this, Hermione replied, "That is a valid point."

"I thought you might protest it."

"Professor, I protest only on matters of opinion and misfacts. I will not contest what is in alignment with my personal ideals and is proven to be true."

In lieu of an eloquent response, McGonagall sighed.

"Come on now, what else is there that is 'simply indecent'?" Provocation served as a great booster for Hermione's emotions, and she presided over the conversation, winning the continual tug-of-war for dominance between the two strong-willed women.

"He's a nasty character," McGonagall tried weakly. "You know his snideness, slyness, tendency to deceit, his lack of proper morals, his sneakiness and stealth, his proneness to dark research-"

"-Is that all?" asked Hermione, to some degree cavalier. "You surprise me, Professor. You are attempting so hard to clear his name, but yet you prove that you think no higher of him than any man at the Ministry?"

"You cannot deny, he has never had a very savory personality, and his life has been far from estimable-"

"-My God!" exclaimed Hermione, "If he could but hear you now!"

Indeed, under the bed they sat upon, Snape was flushing with restrained anger as he listened very well to every word they had hitherto exchanged.

"If he could only hear," Hermione went on, "how you go on, you who are supposed to be working for him! You're supposed to be on his side! Supposed to be clearing the path for him so that he can come out and be a human being again! And this--this is what you say about him behind his back?"

"Clearing his name is only fair, is only just. It would make me horrible to deny that what happened to him is a disgrace, to say that what he sacrificed for the rest of us was meaningless, to insist that he abandon the life he fought so diligently to save should be for naught due to the shadow of a sin from his early years. However, I cannot say that I think it was worth his attempt to save his own life--I cannot, for all I know of him, actually _like _the man we know as Severus Snape. It completely overwhelms me to understand that you see something beyond the shell of surliness that he uses to shield his own innate cowardice."

Hermione took a deep breath to counter this barrage. "Answer these questions truthfully and honestly, Professor. First, is Severus Snape a good man?"

"It all depends on the definition of 'good', I think--"

"Well, isn't Voldemort defined as 'bad'?"

"Most definitely. But 'bad' is too good a word for him."

"It would seem, then, that we have a precedent for judging the definition of the word 'good'. By your suggestion, those who fought on the side of Voldemort for his 'evil' cause would also be 'bad', correct?"

"That is correct. And Severus Snape was one who fought for him." At this, Hermione clapped her hands soundly, as if about to prove her teacher wrong on this, but quickly McGonagall reevaluated her statement. "Only for a while, however."

"And since?"

"He has been--purportedly--faithful to our cause and the destruction of Voldemort."

"And you would call anyone else who fought faithfully to destroy Voldemort 'good', am I correct?"

"Not entirely."

"Why not?"

"No person is entirely good. All have sinned and fall short of the glory of God, as you know."

"I won't dispute that. So, then, no person can really be 'good', correct?"

"Not really."

"Not even yourself?"

McGonagall sighed again. "Not even myself."

"But would you suppose," persisted Hermione, determined not to give up on her thought, "That those who fought on our side are fundamentally more good than those on Voldemort's?"

"Mostly, yes."

"Why mostly?"

"There were some who fought on the side of Voldemort who were people who only were there out of fear."

"But fear is indicative of cowardice, is it not?"

"Yes, and Severus Snape is a coward."

"But Severus Snape fought for more years against Voldemort than for him. Would that not indicate that he is not a coward?"

"No. He still remained outwardly in alliance with Voldemort."

"So he was outwardly 'bad', but inwardly--at least fifty percent--'good'?"

McGonagall was dissatisfied with this conclusion. "Yes."

"Which, to you, is more important--to be outwardly good, or inwardly?"

The Headmistress had to ponder on this for a moment. "To be inwardly good is the most important, but one's inward goodness is shown best through one's outward relations with the world."

"And who taught you that inward goodness was good?" Hermione felt that she had almost reached her climax.

"My family."

"And if your family had not taught you to display your inward goodness through your outward relations with the world, would you be the same person you are today?"

McGonagall snorted. "Rather not."

"And so if someone did not have a family that taught--for whatever reason--those same principles, would they be inwardly bad or good?"

"The family has no bearing upon one's goodness," McGonagall said stoutly, "I've known enough children to know that bad children can come of good families, and good children can come of bad families."

"Would you consider Severus Snape a good child from a bad family?"

"No."

"Why not? By your own definition, he was mostly good because the good in him outweighed the bad and he fought against Voldemort. Certainly not as bad as many people who fought with Voldemort, and not as cowardly as many of those bad people. It seems that Severus Snape was, inherently, a good person. And if he did not show it well in his relations to the world, could not that just be a result of his upbringing and family?"

McGonagall was supremely frustrated. "Hermione, you are talking in absolute circles; it's dizzying."

Hermione stuck by her main point. "Well, couldn't it?"

The older teacher had given up, however. "This is preposterous."

"But you see," Hermione said, letting off her teacher with a smile, "That despite his outward traits, Severus Snape is inwardly a good person. I'm just one who realizes that a little better than anyone else. Come to think of it, even Harry accepts that Snape was a good person, though often misguided and more often misjudged. Besides all that, he's talented, graceful, intelligent, and just--just amazing in so many ways. Can't you understand why I might be in love with him?"

Nodding, the older teacher shrugged her heavy shoulders. "You seem to have thought about it a lot. I still say that it is a fancy of youth, but you are too verbose by half for me to be able to prove it. I am a numbers person, not a debater."

It was clear who had won this. Hermione smiled. "Would it be too impertinent for me to suggest that the studies of the ancient Greeks be more rigorously examined universally at Hogwarts?"

"Which in particular?"

"Socrates?"

"I don't know why not."

The women then heard a bawdy cry from the living room, accompanied by more gagging, so Hermione and McGonagall left the scene to deal with the remains of Ron's dinner.

. . . x . . .X . . . x . . .

Snape felt just slightly more irritated after the whole episode, both at McGonagall and Hermione. The first angered him because his 'suspicions' had been found out to have a core of truth, though the second was because they had none. The girl harbored, for some inexplicable reason, genuine affection for him. The idea of toying with that somewhat amused him while he crawled from under her bed, but he felt no real interest in the girl. _She is, of course, a girl, and that is very likely why. As brilliant as she has proven herself to be, she is young and inexperienced, and I would feel as though I were corrupting her with every kiss, if we ever got so far.  
_

With the remembrance that he was leaving England, and hence the English wizardkind, for eternity, he felt a jubilation that completely overshadowed any other feelings he may have contained.

Taking advantage of Hermione's whinging and skillful argumentation--_so glad I don't have to deal with that for life! I pity Ronald Weasley, to whom she will surely attach herself henceforth--_Snape disapparated as soon as the women left, landing outside behind a full mulberry bush in Hermione's front yard. _Now I can be rid of them forever! _

_Now Lily will be my entire world. _He smiled to himself with uncharacteristic sanguinity._ Think of 'Rosa Manzanares,' my wife._

Humming a snatch of 'La Cucaracha' or something that he hoped was like it, he stepped from behind the bush and began to jauntily walk down the street, swinging his cane in an adept manner. _Character is key when doing something dangerous like this _he reminded himself absently. He would not allow himself to dream of Lily being at his side for almost a day, for she was waiting for him thousands of miles away in a New York hotel.

Gringotts was a difficult matter to attend to, but he presented himself as the Snape Family Lawyer from the Snapes of the United States, and attained the money after much jaw-breaking with the Goblins, who were seemingly glad to divest themselves of the very unfortunate and small accounts of Severus Snape, whom they knew very well to be dead. It was no fortune, or they might have been more difficult with him.

However, it was enough to get him on a plane to America. First class, one-way ticket to New York via London Heathrow.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

It was also enough for the hotel in New York where he stayed his first night in America. Letting his absurd and exaggeratedly fake identity wash away in the bubbles of a hot steaming bath was bliss. Dye brought back the color to his air, a shave sufficed for his mustache, and the disillusion was dropped so that he looked much more normal.

He also grew back his hair to its normal length.

It was only in this guise that he permitted himself to 'meet' his Lily.

The bathroom door was open, letting the steam from the bath waft gently to condense on the mirror in his bedroom and release the scents of cigarettes smoked long ago from the wallpaper. The clean steam, the pearly scent of the Ivory soap, and the dimness of the bathroom lights were conducive to dreaming. Closing his eyes, he imagined a scratching on the door of the hotel room as a key found a lock, and seemed to hear the vending machine down the hall hum and then die away as the door softly opened and closed. A few bags were set down at the foot of his large king-sized bed--he heard the thump!--and then two more thumps as a pair of nasty high-heels were kicked into a corner.

The rest was ritualistic to him. He imagined the soft zlicks of her nylons coming off, the zipper of her skirt coming undone, and the busy silence of her shirt buttons freeing themselves. From there, it was a matter of a few metallic clicks and cotton being pulled over skin, and then he knew she was free.

Soft footsteps approached the bathroom, he thought, and her 'voice' wafted to his ear.

"May I come in?"

Not raising his eyes a decimeter, he lifted his wand and shut off the lights.

"Certainly."

The water above his legs splashed slightly as he perceived her 'step', and he edged himself over so that she might 'settle' down beside him.

"I don't really fit; this isn't a double bath."

"So?"

She 'decided' to make the attempt anyway, and they found it snugly successful.

"This is novel," he said after they were 'wedged' together in the bath.

"Isn't it?"

_It's just like times of old--it's just as if Hermione Granger never existed._

A 'kiss' on the side of his cheek stirred his emotions further.

"Severus, I love you."

There were few apt replies. He went for the tried and true. "Lily, I love you."

The rest of this scene would be at once too heartrending and too pathetic to describe. Let it be said, that Severus had the illusion of a delightful evening with a ghost that only existed in his own mind.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

The next morning he left the hotel, clothes back in order and personality to match, to blend into the crowds of the New York streets. The painful waking up and remembering for a brief mournful second the grand affair of the night before, then recalling anew how it was all imaginary was enough to sober Severus in the new territory. However, then he remembered that he _was_ in a new territory, so he decided to take the fullest advantage of the new flavors.

He stopped at _Au Bon Pain _for a simple oatmeal breakfast, finding their variety very superfluous and the price abominable. (This was before he remembered that the pound was worth more than the dollar.)

'Lily' was there, sampling some fruit and a muffin.

"Hey," she 'said', carefully between bites, "You slept later than usual."

"It wasn't easy, sleeping last night," Severus said to her, too excited to 'see' her to say much.

She 'smiled' at him. "I concur. Now would you be averse to some sightseeing? New York is really a splendid place. I really would like to explore more of it."

With a knowing look, Snape leaned forward and, with a sultry voice, whispered into her 'ear'. "Your word is my command."

Lily 'giggled', as was her habit when he tried to be sexy in public, and merely stuffed a slice of her apple into his mouth.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

McGonagall had left very soon after the end of her conversation with Hermione, very exasperated and not quite sure whether to let the Ministry know about Severus' disappearance and uncover the whole plot to them, or just forget Severus. She intended to confer with Mr. Weasley and Kingsley Shacklebolt, however, and Hermione supposed they would prefer to leave the rat's nest buried and not bother any more.

Snape was beyond her reach, she felt certain. He was very spooked, and very likely he had done exceedingly well in hiding himself from the world. She could deal with finding him later. Ron needed her immediate help, however, and Harry's. Thus, she contacted Harry, and very quickly he came over to her aid.

"Now what the hell is going on?" he asked when he saw Ron on the couch, looking like death or worse. "I thought you said he was okay."

"I am okay, Harry," Ron said, sitting up wearily. "Just a bit fagged, is all."

"But why are you _here?_" the impertinent friend persisted, though Hermione drew him aside to discuss it.

"I don't know why Ron's here, but here's something I didn't tell you--Snape's left."

"What?"

"He left a while ago. Leaving the country."

"But whatever for?"

"He hates us, Harry." This sober fact was so distressing to her that it showed clearly on her face. Harry was grim.

"He can't hate us. I mean, he's always hated me, that's a given, but I mean, that's not anything to go leaving the country about."

"But he has! For no better reason!"

At this point, she gave up resistance, and began to tear.

Harry automatically drew his arm around her in consolation.

"Why, Hermione, does it matter? Do you--" Then it became obvious. "--You fancy him, don't you?"

"Yes." Her voice was infantismal, tiny. Harry, with some sadness, hugged her tighter.

"You poor soul. What ever are we going to do with you?"

Hermione could no longer contain her will, and she succumbed to sobbing on her best friend's shoulder.

. . . x. . . X . . . x . . .

_Review. It's what you do. _


	13. On Houses

_I'm not just kidding when I say that I'm not J.K._

I will reiterate:I am not answering reviews right now because I am very busy. It is only by depriving myself of sleep that I am able to produce this chapter. Thanks so much for reading, and do review! It makes me more happy than I can express in words.

Have a simply spiffy Thanksgiving, if you're in the States. :)

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

**Chapter 13**

Snape was swamped by the night theater crowds that only thickened the likes of New York and London. 'Lily' was with him, her hand hot and moist and cradling his own within his drab brown overcoat pocket. An ever-present bemused smile played her lips, which held all the airy grace of a flute or harp and the sarcasm of a trombone. _Somehow, I don't think that's quite appropriate_, Snape reevaluated, and decided that 'her' expression was merely angelic in a naive sort of way, like a single dedicated stroke upon a triangle. (1)

"Bloody cities," Snape cursed Snape aloud, caring not who heard. The people within his immediate proximity would not have paid him any notice even if he had transfigured himself into a lion and started roaring at them. They would have calmly continued their life's servitude to dodging ferocious leopardlike taxis while jaywalking. Snape found this herd mentality singularly depressing and irksome, and so he forced himself to pay close attention to his surroundings. The nauseating smell of hot coffee, greasy wieners, and fried potatoes met his lips, and he became aware of a little Jewish restaurant, attempting to pick up on the corner coffee-house craze by advertising blended drinks, straining to attract theater traffic.

"Only in New York City," Snape commented acidly, "would one find something so disgustingly unexpected in the middle of the night, open."

"Oh, come, don't be so pessimistic," 'Lily' suggested, her middle finger sliding up the center of his palm in such a manner that made him shudder in delight. "I'd like some tea, and you want to get out of the crowd. Let's go in."

Furrowing his brow, Snape dutifully surveyed the place before going in; it seemed rather dingy, but if all she wanted was a cuppa, no need to bother arguing with her. He accepted that he was too suspicious by half, and acquiesced to his beloved's request.

It was a seedy-looking place, probably just barely clearing its annual expenses, but 'Lily' commented, with customary cheer, "Quite delightful! So homey!" and dropped into a chair at a little secluded table in a dark corner. _I must say this for the place_, Snape observed, _they've got very stable furniture._ He went up to the counter, which was managed by a man who leaned against the cash register with a cigarette behind his ear.

"Whadd'yuh aav?" the man asked in innocuous Brooklyn accent. Snape barely hid a grimace, and asked quietly for a cup of hot tea.

"Green aw reg-lawr?"

Snape asked with uncommon courtesy for black, paid the change requested, and slipped back to 'Lily's' table.

She smiled at him as he settled into the dark, heavy, old-fashioned chairs that littered the tiny establishment. "The show we saw tonight was absolutely lovely. Far better than what we saw last week," she said, her voice demure.

"Rather," Snape replied, inherently agreeing with whatever she said. _I really am going a little bit too far with this imaginary play, though_, he thought, remembering how this was the second Friday night in a row that he had purchased two seats to see a Broadway musical--one remaining conspicuously unoccupied the duration of the show. It was rather startling for him to imagine her _there _the entire first act, then turn to her at intermission and be reminded how she was only a figment of his imagination. _Well, if I end up going to any more shows, I'll come up with some excuse so she can't go. Then I can enjoy it without feeling too lonely. _

Indeed, that was the only way he could truly enjoy things--things like books, movies, or shows--these days, when his 'Lily' was busy. This was not often, of course, since she too was purportedly a stranger in the great vast country of America, but whenever any other excuse failed him, she was 'out shopping'. Whenever she was 'around', he felt obligated to devote his entire attention to the being he knowingly had remodeled in his own mind. It was, in a sense, like the courtship of Pygmalion with the lady he created--'Lily' monopolized the majority of Snape's life, and only disappeared when he found it convenient. _But that's what I want_, Snape told himself, dispelling the blasphemous thought pattern that had plagued him for the duration of the two weeks he had thus far spent in America.

For, essentially, reminding himself that 'Lily' was not real was equivalent to blasphemy. She was the only guiding, moral force in his life, and brought forth a solemnity, respect, and honor that most only reserve for God or the Trinity. Snape was aware of the unnaturalness of this, but was prepared to put off the decision of quitting his addiction to an imaginary person for a long time. He had been accompanied by some form of 'Lily' ever since the real woman--really, little more than a girl--died, and he had no intention of abandoning her now as he reached the cusp of 39.

He then pulled himself further into reality as he realized that 'Lily' was talking her head off about the characters in the musical.

" . . . and that poor man--what was his name?--the policeman?"

"Javert," filled in Snape compliantly.

"Yes, him. I wanted so badly to cry at the point he was jumping off the bridge; the whole soliloquy before he jumped, with that 'to go onnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn' after it all, well, it was so magical, so sad! Oh my gosh, I just wanted to jump on stage and save the poor thing, he was suffering so! But I don't really understand why he did it. He didn't do it for love, and most men would only do it for love."

"Yes, that's quite right," Snape agreed, his mind going back involuntarily to the night that the real Lily had died.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

_Two options. Make that three, if I want to make a bloody mess and simply do a sectumsempra on my veins.  
_

Snape, at age twenty-three, lay prostate on his bed in Spinner's End, ready to die. It was true. Lily--the real one--was dead.

He was not sure how to take this. Since their estrangement years prior, he had seen and heard little of her, and been satisfied with the company of his pretend 'Lily'; an unwholesome, saucy facsimile of the real. However, as the news sank it, it became more and more clear that the life he had been living was a lie. He had been lying to himself, to the one girl who had been his friend . . . and now she was lost. It was only right that he lose himself, too.

_Maybe four options, if I want to do it passively, just not eat or drink anything._

_Well, maybe starvation is quick enough. _The idea of going without water was too terrible, almost as bad as suffocating, which Snape most definitely had not the gumption to do. _I'm so thin, it won't take any time at all. _

_That's probably the best option, and I always have the chance to go back on it. But do I want the chance to go back on it?_

He pondered, and hiccuped. Sobbing uncontrollably for an hour brought on that symptom, and firewhiskey did little to help assuage his convulsing diaphragm.

_I wonder if this is going to be one of those bad ideas that I wake up in the morning and decide was really stupid. But I don't think it's stupid. It's what I ought to do. I can't exist without her. I simply can't._

He lay, pondering.

_I don't think bloody Dumbledore is going to keep his word. When has he ever been good to me? Not that I can ever recall. And . . . oh, well, there is dad's gun._

Snape wondered where it was. _Up in the attic? Nah, I don't feel like digging around in the dust._ He was perfectly content with wallowing in his self-pity, brewing hatred, and steeping violence for the remainder of his days.

And then . . .

"Severus?"

He swore he heard her voice. Stifling another hiccup, he sat up and looked towards the door.

"Severus?"

It was louder this time, more distinct. He rose, blinking furiously and rubbing the snot from his upper lip.

And then he saw her, appearing like a ghost at the door. She looked at him for a split second, then rushed to him, tears erupting at her own oculars even as she clasped him dearly.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

_And then we began a new stage in our relationship_, Snape of the present remembered with a faint smile. Yes, he could certainly understand dying for love, as could Lily. However, unlike her, he could see how a man whose life was built around justice--not love--might be at a similar junction if faced with the death of his Worshiped Beloved.

"Well, darling, it's a little more complex than that," he stated, allowing himself a small smile of gratitude. _I am so glad that I did not end it all then, as much as I often regretted it in England. But this is a new world, a new love--a new life! _He henceforward engaged himself in the conversation. "He loved justice as some men love their respective women." His eyes gazed into hers as he said this, enforcing the fact that he meant _his _love for _her_. "And thus, as some men would kill themselves for love . . ."

"But it isn't a person; it's an abstract object!" objected Lily passionately. "How can one love something one cannot see?"

The comment was innocent enough, but it angered Snape, for it reflected the blasphemy he had been contemplating often that night, spurred by the loneliness at the show.

"You're not coming with me tonight," Snape said angrily, getting up angrily and ignoring the cash-register man who proffered the teapot and cups. Then, with a snarl, Snape thundered off into the night, disregarding the scandalized comment of the waiter:

"But I never asked to!"

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

'She' was waiting for him back at the hotel, as he anticipated she would. The only sound she made was a sigh, and she otherwise remained completely quiet while he stripped to the nude. He forewent pyjamas, as he had forgotten them when leaving England and quite honestly didn't give a damn if he was somewhere without emergencies to wake him. Then, with a glare, he regarded her as she sat primly on the bedspread.

"I'm sorry," 'she' said, clearly apologetic, "I didn't mean to rile you."

By this time, he had rather forgotten what it was 'she' had 'said' to thus rile him, and he waved his hand as a gesture to show that all things were passed away and forgiven. 'She' proceeded to make room for him in bed, plumping the pillows and the like. He quickly turned off the lights, slipped under the covers, and teased her quite viciously until giving in to her muffled screams, and she to his.

After an exhausting but exhilarating tryst, the 'pair' was curled amid a swell of mussed blankets in such a way that Snape almost forgot that he was the only one who was really in the bed. And then they set to talking.

"I'd like a house, Severus," 'she' told him that night, as they lay curled in the slightly sweaty hotel quilt. He nodded sleepily, barely paying attention. But then he saw the logic in this proposal.

"You're right. After a month of this lavish spending--hotelwise especially--I'll be near broke"

"You'll need to get a job, too."

"Yeah."

They lay in a decent quiet for a time, whereupon 'Lily' turned to look at him.

"Somehow, my dear, I feel as though you have something on your mind," Snape proposed thoughtfully, gazing into the green eyes that so entrapped him.

"Well, yes. I really want that house."

"Well, where do you want it?"

"Massachusetts."

The fact was so plainly stated that Snape had little basis to argue. "Why Massachusetts in particular?"

"The history. The culture. The fish. I don't know. I just want to live in Massachusetts. Somewhere where we can walk to the seashore easily. That'd be nice."

"It would be nice." He paused.

"When are you going to work on it?" 'she' asked impatiently.

"Certainly not now. Tomorrow."

"All right."

They went to sleep perfectly contented.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

Snape was a man of habit, and it was his habit to scowl whenever anyone smiled at him--pretty woman or no. Save Lily, or rather 'Lily', obviously, but she was a different case. Thus, following his rule, when Miss Becky Hawthorne beamed appreciatively over her desk at his entrance, he responded as usual.

"Good morning, Mr. Snopes," she said, flashing brilliantly American white teeth at him. "I've lined up a new selection of houses to look at today, more within the price range you intimated. Would you like me to show you the pictures and details first, or do you want to just go right on out to look at them?"

"I'd prefer to see the houses, first," Snape said gruffly, attempting to sound less than the sentimental old codger that he was.

A week ago he had enlisted Mr. Henry Hampton to search for houses for him, but the man had made such fun of Snape's Briticisms and undisguised accent that Snape had decided he was better rid of him. Plus, the man was rather too glib at questioning, and it was unnerving to Snape, who wanted to at least pretend to himself that he had no need to fear Muggles.

So, he had invested time in Becky Hawthorne since, and she had proven both more businesslike and less nosey. She was newer and had less of a reputation, so he had discerned, but she was well on her way, in his limited opinion, to making her way in the business. A far as he could tell, she was scrupulous, honest, and efficient. She was concerned about her clients only insofar as it had any bearing upon her business--finding the perfect house for them. However, she did seem rather taken with the idea that he wanted a cellar in whatever house he bought, seeing the option as unnecessary and only something that made her job less easy.

"Are they old houses that we're going to see today?" Snape asked carefully, as they went out to Becky's pretty silver Mercedes-Benz. Since the topic of cellars had come up, it had become clear that the only houses with real cellars were either very old or very old-fashioned. The reason he harped upon the issue of the cellar was because he had spent so much time in dungeons, he felt he could only conduct proper potions work within them.

"Some of them," she concluded airily, "Although they could do with much outside renovation, most of them. But there's one in particular I think you'll really like, as long as the people who left it didn't do anything nasty to it."

One reason he hated Becky Hawthorne was because she was so American, yet that was the main reason he appreciated her. She fit the American stereotype perfectly, and Snape found this gratifying since the majority of the people he had met were New Yorkers--infinitely different from the other East Coast cultures, he discovered.

They drove up to a house that seemed like all the rest she had shown him--large, vast, and rather too expensive. It was a beautiful house, from what he could tell--probably built in the 1930s, it was very solid, made of dark wood and brick, and spoke 'Churchill' all over it.

"I thought we were going to look within my range more," he complained bitterly, hating to be shown merchandise he found splendid but couldn't buy.

"It is within your price range, actually. You'll see why if you will allow me to show you around inside," Becky offered, stopping at the head of the gravel driveway. "Come on." She parked the car and pulled out a ring of keys, advancing towards the front door of the house. Frowning, Snape followed, noticing with some suspicion that she did not draw out the key ring she usually used for showing off the houses they were visiting. However, never hesitating Becky climbed up the porch (which Snape could see was slightly overgrown with spiney huckleberry bushes) and opened the large oak front door.

"Come on," she encouraged again, as he showed some slight hesitation. "Come on, I promise, you'll like this place."

Snape bit his lip and prayed that he would--and that the price would be right.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

She showed him the magnificent--but slightly dusty--rooms. Snape thought it might have done well for a museum; it had an aura of having been well-lived-in and was very homey.

_Homey. Lily wants a place that's homey. That's a point in this place's favor._

He admired the delicious den with a high-back leather chair and expansive desk, secretly adored how it was segregated from the rest of the house by the well-furnished library, and he discovered that there was even a magnificent checker-board-tiled ballroom and a shaded patio covered in bougainvillea. One tiny cupboard of a room had stained-glass windowpanes of musical instruments, and a great black Steinway sat there like a fat bug dozing in a birdhouse.

The kitchens were expansive, large, solid, and utterly magnificent, and connected to the greatest cellar he had seen in the entire house-searching process.

_This place is really a mansion._

Unfortunately, despite the dark wood walls and ceilings, despite the expansiveness of the place and the lived-in aura of the place . . . he fell deeply and desperately in love.

"Isn't this place grand?" Becky asked when they were done exploring most of the rooms, sitting on the porch drinking a thermos of coffee. "I love it here."

"It seems fully adequate to my needs," he replied tactfully, to which she replied with a beaming smile. "However," he persisted, "I must know why no one has hitherto claimed it. I fear that the price-"

"Oh, phooey to the price!" exclaimed Becky passionately. "The reason that no one has bought this place is . . . well, quite honestly, it's not even officially on the market."

Snape looked incredulously at her, both surprised and apprehensive. This was not the Becky Hawthorne he had been acquainted with for the past few days. He never would have suspected that she would go so low as to break into someone else's home who wasn't even selling . . .

"I actually own this place," Becky went on glibly, and Snape's Hydra-head of apprehensions about illegality died, instead to be replaced by apprehensions about his own personal safety. Was she luring him into a trap? _Is McGonagall behind this? Or is she just going to try and make me bed her?_

"And because I own this place . . . well, to be quite clear, it was my grandmother's house, passed on to me at her death. My mother was disinherited for marrying below her rank, but my grandmother loved me a lot." Becky smiled faintly. "However, this place is just way too gloomy for me, you know?"

"I can understand that," Snape said slowly. A thrill began to trill in his bosom. _Perhaps, is this the place that Lily and I can spend the rest of our lives together?_

"But I really don't want to sell this place to just . . . any old person," Becky went on sadly. "It's got so much history, and love, and . . . why, heck, I'd kinda like to raise my grandkids in it. So, basically, I've been waiting for just the right person to come along . . . someone who appreciates history, isn't liable to wreck the place with 'improvements' and all that crap, adding wings and destroying all the valuable memories in this place. It ought to be a historic monument, I think, or it will be in a few decades. But I think . . . am I right in perhaps hoping that you'll take good care of this place? Because if you do, I'll give you the deal of a lifetime on it."

Snape paused. "Is there a path to the seaside from here?"

"There's a little lane adjoining the property that takes you straight down to the beach. Granted, it's not the best beach in Massachusetts, but it's decent. The locals go there of a summer afternoon, I guess."

Thereupon Snape decided to break his rule, and smiled ardently at Becky. "Miss Hawthorne, then it is absolutely perfect. When can I move in?"

The gesture of happiness was not lost on Becky, who became even more exuberant at Snape's smile. "Today, if you like, Mr. Snopes. I don't live here--too dark for me, as I said--but it will set my heart very light to have someone in residency here. I love this house--in fact, it rather inspired me to go into real estate--and I'll do almost anything to keep it."

"Excellent."

. . . x. . . X . . . x . . .

(1) That was an accidental reference to The Young Lutheran's Guide to the Orchestra. Read it here, but you have to scroll down the page a lot. http : // www. /music_humor .html

_Review. It's what you do. _


	14. On Moriaty's

_I'm not just kidding when I say that I'm not J.K._

I will reiterate: I am probably not going to answer any reviews still right now because I am very busy. It is only by depriving myself of sleep that I am able to produce this chapter. Thanks so much for reading, and do review! It makes me more happy than I can express in words.

By the way, people are concerned that this is not going to end up HG/SS . . . for those of you who have asked, fear not! I simply feel that they (both) need to mature a little bit before they can actually get together. Hermione, as I have hitherto written her, has been rather an inconsistent upstart, on the cusp of womanhood but assuming she is more advanced than she is. Snape's simply bonkers, and I'm going to develop his relationship with Becky just a bit until circumstances allow for his full adult attention to be focused upon Hermione. It's the process that counts, y'all, but there'll be plenty of romance in the between-times, as this chapter will reveal.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

**Chapter 14**

After Snape left, Hermione went through an emotional dance that verged between hysterical and coldly practical. Harry had left as quickly as he could without leaving her out to dry, wisely leaving her to tend to the hypersensitive and still rather queasy Ronald Weasley. Her father had come home, surveyed the situation with a desperate sigh, and went to his library with only a sparse word to the accord that "well, you're smart, honey-bunch, you'll figure it all out."

And that was that.

A week later, Hermione was sick of studying and writing and thinking, and decided to go out and do some good work for the community. It was not as though she were an invalid, after all.

That was what led her to Odin.

Working in a food kitchen in London's most foul underbelly was hardly pleasant work. _Quite honestly, _Hermione thought on her first day, _If my parents knew exactly where I was and what I was doing, they'd freak. And have me home in an instant. This isn't really the place for young ladies._

Indeed, her evaluation was quite correct. Moriaty's Bread-and-Butter Kitchen was the name of the place, but it sounded much more cheerful than it looked. Grimy walls, dingy tureens of boiling soup made from sickly yellow powder, linoleum flooring long past its prime, and cobwebs in every rafter and curtain was not the worst of the ineptly titled food servicing counter. Not a single plastic bowl that was not chipped, nor a single plastic tumbler that was entirely clean existed on the property. Every spoon was bent to some degree, most of the forks were missing a tier or two, and the knives were of no use than to butter bread. This last was of small consequence, however, as nothing was served at the establishment more difficult to slice than a pungent morsel of cheesecake or flimsy green jello.

If it were only the utensils provided, or the housing, Hermione might not have thought so badly of the place. Indeed, her parents would have loved her to go, if not strongly encouraged her to do so. They were, after all, not miserly people, and believed in the concept of voluntary community service. "Better voluntary than forced," Dr. Granger always reminded his ladies at dinner if the subject was broached. The Grangers were well-acquainted with a few choice charities in London whom they supported ardently with annual checks. As it was, however, Hermione told her parents (when they were home to see her go) that she was off to the movies with Ginny and Harry, and perhaps Ron if he felt up to it. This was because the people who frequented Moriaty's were not all that scrupulous.

Ex-cons, violators of parole, mental cases, desperate singles and drunkards--those were the ones who came to Moriaty's. The majority of them would not have come if they were not starving, sick, fatigued, or all three at once. Hermione observed with some shock upon her first day that most of the people who came into the place were bedraggled, depressed, and apathetic. The men's hair was usually unkempt and uncut, their beards were swarthy and grizzled, and they almost invariably wore frayed jeans. The most well-groomed man she ever saw enter the door had a two-day beard that looked revoltingly like gray mold over his chin. The women usually carried a tot or two, and generally were helplessly overweight, wearing skirts that were too tight on their lumpy matron's bodies and sweatshirts that smelled of sweat, lust, and vomit. Many wore faded mini-skirts with holes, and Hermione often saw too much of the sagging, lifeless, unclothed flesh beneath them. Undergarments were anathema to these poor people, who seemed to be little more than shades of their former selves, and most of them had no more clothes than the ones they wore. It was all very sad.

Why did Hermione ever apply to such a place to enlist her services, and why did she return when she had better evaluated her circumstances?

To answer the first of these questions is simple: Hermione merely flipped through the phone book under 'Social services etc.', and immediately espied 'Moriaty's Bread-And-Butter Kitchen'. It made her laugh at the time, as she recognized the name of the arch-villain in the Holmes books, James Moriaty. However, to contradict the sinister prefix to its name, the rest of it sounded cheery enough, and so she made the call. The phone was answered within three rings by a childish voice belonging to the establishment's prime advocate, Dorothy Warner. Upon Hermione's inquiry, Ms. Warner was very quick to claim the girl's services, and they laid out the time and dates for her employment at the kitchen right then and there.

The second of the aforementioned questions is more complicated, however. Hermione arrived to her first afternoon shift at Moriaty's very apprehensive, noticing with increasing anxiousness the drab alley upon which the faded Georgian townhouse faced, the grime and dirt on the porch and doorstep, and the noxious fumes emitting from a barrel across the street from the door. Her nervousness did not decrease when she saw the clientèle of the kitchen, the quality of the services provided to them, and the lack of staff--no one save the proprietor Ms. Warner, too light of heart and too heavy of build to do much but rush about like a bull in a china shop, trip over the ridges in the creaky old floorboards, and generally do little to improve the situation of the place. She was on the verge of deciding never to come back to the place after the first day, until she looked into the eyes of a particular old man who seemed to have some spark left in him. Granted, he seemed to be about eighty or so, and he wheezed dreadfully, and he never seemed to leave Moriaty's, but in him Hermione was reminded of Sirius Black. The devil was still in that man, and his quiet quirk of a smile whenever she looked closely at him was inspiring to her.

He was called Marty, and seemed to be a wise and stolid fixture at Moriaty's. (1) Ms. Warner could not remember when he had first shown his face there, but she figured it was before her time. Hermione looked at him with curiosity every chance she got, taking special time in preparing a thin film of beef soup to nourish his frail frame. He said nothing as he accepted it, along with a semi-stale roll and a square of cheap milk chocolate, but his eyes smiled at her. He rarely spoke, and Ms. Warner could recount but few words he had said to her. Every morning when Hermione arrived he was sitting there, quite contentedly smoking a pipe and watching the flickering fireplace as though the flames held the answers to every question in the universe. Ms. Warner reported that he was one of the few people who spent his nights at Moriaty's, indubitably comfortable on a little pallet in a closet only used to house Ms. Warner's coat, hat (for she was very old-fashioned) and purse during the day, along with Hermione's trench coat. There were facilities enough available in the house for ten people, but it was very rare to have more than five beds to make in the morning. Marty was the only person to stay longer than a week, and he made his own bed.

Marty was why Hermione returned to Moriaty's--it was somehow incredibly inspiring to see such a resolute optimist (or at least a realist) amid the dreary crowd of pessimists, and she wanted to discover the man's secret. _Why is he different? _she asked herself, continually puzzling over the question and trying to discern the facets of his nature.

In any case, he was the only reason she felt at all safe at Moriaty's, and it was his influence that helped her to realize that she really was needed at Moriaty's. It was also because of him that she later met Odin.

One week, two weeks, three weeks went by; it was a full month after Snape had picked up and left her life, and she had almost convinced herself that she had dreamed the whole thing up during an absurdly emotional period. At night she tried to dream of Ron, and she actually had reconciled and gotten back together with him. However, she was fully aware that she did not love him, and never could love him, in a way that was not equivocal to a brother. Not that it bothered her at all to be back in his company--to be quite truthful, after Snape left, she really did miss Ron's company. Perhaps not his slobbery kisses (though she knew she was going to get him a book called 'The Art of Kissing Like a Gentleman' for Christmas!) or his puppydog-like affection for her, but she did somewhat miss being the one chased rather than the one chasing. She did not have to work at a relationship with Ron. She would have her work cut out for her if she ever intended to win Snape. _Which is rather impossible at this point, so there's no reason not to appreciate a good thing when one sees it!_

Hermione spent about half her time at the food kitchen, eventually admitting to her parents that she was working 'on an internship to a really top-secret organization within the Ministry of Magic that I can't tell you about' and then dividing the rest of her time between Ron and studying. Life, for her, had gone back to relative normality.

This changed when she first met Odin.

She first saw his round, thoughtful face when the door jingled at Moriaty's with a ferocity that was reserved for her own entrance, and she immediately looked up to see who had arrived. As it was ten past one, and the lunch hour was over, and since most of the people who came to Moriaty's were well accustomed to the mealtimes, coming to feed like pigs to a trough, anyone's entrance was indeed unexpected. A cynical smile painted his youthful cherry-red lips, and a jaunty soft driving cap perched on his enormous head. He seemed to have shaved that morning, and Hermione judged him to be about twenty or thereabouts. Brown, bovine eyes and a fringe of graceful curling locks framed his face, and he squinted intelligently at his surroundings, appraising them with almost surprise, as though he had apparated there by accident.

Hermione was in the middle of scrubbing a nasty greasy pot, pondering on the apparent meaninglessness of her life as she was wont to do when occupied in dish-washing. In particular, she was thinking about Snape, and was bemoaning how foolish she had been to fall in love with him when his heart was so clearly engaged elsewhere, in the worshiping of Lily. Obviously, she did not know to what extreme he regarded the dead woman, but it was clear from the few clues she had gleaned that he was still prone to missing the woman deeply, too deeply to engage in a relationship with anyone but 'that woman'. _Christ! There were so many indications and I never picked up on them! He's still in love with that dead woman, no matter how he tries to hide it. I don't know what I ever was thinking to flirt with him like I did. That damned woman! Harry's mother, for crying out loud! It's as if her hand extends from the grave, grasping at the poor man's wounded heart, burning it further like liquid nitrogen but even as it burns it digs deeper into his heart's core. How horrible! I do so wish I could have realized this and worked to free him from her bonds while I had the chance. But I never tried; all I wanted to do was get his arms around me and come to a mutual understanding beyond friendship. He probably saw me as an immature little child incapable of understanding true love and all that bull and all because of _her_ . . ._

But that is when the stranger entered, and Hermione grudgingly laid down her work. When she saw the intelligent, quirky young face that immediately peaked her interest, she quickly squirted anti-grease dish soap on her hands.

"Hullo, what can I do for you?" she asked politely, washing her hands hastily and rubbing them dry on her heavy canvas apron.

He was, she could easily see, not one of the sort that usually came into such a place as Moriaty's. His shirt was dingy, he wore the customary denim of the street men, and his shoes were worn until she could see the toes of his socks--but this did not disguise the fact that he was wearing socks, socks that were very white. Also, the tweed jacket he wore looked as though he had acquired it recently from a rummage sale or resale shop; the cuffs were not too threadbare and overall the coat appeared just old enough to be comfortable. In short, he rather resembled a man of leisure going out to do gardening or painting in the oldest clothes he had, as opposed to a homeless vagrant.

"I'm looking for Marty," the man said in perfect accents, unmarred by the drunkard's slur or a slummy drawl. "And I see him."

"Ah," Hermione said, looking to the old codger in the corner. Marty beamed with perfect serenity upon them both, and kicked at a nearby chair to indicate an invitation.

The young man paused a moment, looking rather incredulously at Hermione for a moment. After the lapse of perhaps thirty seconds, he pronounced the question: "How old are you?"

"Coming on nineteen," Hermione replied, then, upon meeting the stranger's eyes, found herself blushing.

"Hm, and I'm coming on twenty two. And old Marty's over there coming on ninety four. Ah yes, we're a nice assortment, if you count our lovely Ms. Warner who turned sixty-odd last May."

_He's clearly someone who knows this place well, _Hermione considered.

"Well, miss nineteen, you're new, aren't you?"

"Rather."

He regarded her with some apparent consideration. "You're far too pretty to waste your time slaving away at this wretched place. I heartily recommend you abandon this frightful blizzard-bearing kitchen and soar to a more hospitable climate, little sparrow. Pray, though, _petite piaf_, surely you have a name?"

She felt herself melting like butter in his hands. "My name is Hermione. And yours?"

He did not immediately reply, but seemed to ponder for a moment. Then he exclaimed: "Aha! A tante cure, o amiche, riconoscente io son; ma offrite indarno. Sollievo all'alma mia, che vendetta sol pasce, e gelosia. La mia sventura a chi non è palese? Chi non conosce i torti miei, le offese? Osa la friga schiava il cor di Pirro togliermi . . . iniqua! e della rotta fede esulta il traditore." (2)

Hermione was startled at this, not knowing very much Italian. "I'm sorry, I don't speak much more than English and a little French."

The man smiled. "It means, ' I am grateful to you, my friends, for your great concern; but it is in vain that you offer relief to my soul: it feeds upon revenge and jealousy alone. To whom is my hapless state not evident? Who does not know of my wrongs, the offences I have suffered? The Phrygian slave dares to snatch the heart of Pirro from me . . . evil woman! and the traitor exults in his breach of faith.' Does this strike a chord, mademoiselle?"

For, indeed, Hermione felt suddenly as though the quotation applied to her in a way that such a stranger could not, should not be able to perceive. So startled she was, especially as she had been thinking against Lily with violent jealousy for the past half hour, she could do nothing but nod.

"It was only a guess, but by the most deuced of coincidences I suppose got it right on the spot. I guess, though, I can tell when a woman is wishing death upon another woman. There's a brooding on your brow, my dear Hermione, that is not attractive." He gave her a smile, then added, "For irony's sake, I must note that the particular line came to mind with the knowledge of your name: Hermione. The Italian for it is Ermione, and by that name there is a little-remembered opera by Rossini. If I were not such a particular aficionado of Rossini, I probably would not know it."

Hermione had indeed heard of such an opera (for everyone has an interest in anything that involves one's own name) although she had never read the text. Her stomach dropped to her intestines, and without a word to the man's impertinence, she turned and began to scrub a pot vigorously. She heard him chuckle, and say: "You can call me Odin, if you ever care to speak to me again."

She banged the metal pots as much as possible in anger at both him and herself--for she did want to speak to him again.

. . . x. . . X . . . x . . .

(1) I named him Marty in honor of the dude that always used to call the Sean Hannity show, who died just this past month. My memories concerning him are few, for I never really thought much of what he said, but I do remember always hearing 'Martyyyyyy!' and wondering why the heck Hannity liked his calls so much.

(2) There really is an opera called Ermione. See some of it here: h t t p : / / www . opera - rara . com / media / productsounds / Ermione . doc

_Review. It's what you do. _


	15. On Odin

_I'm not just kidding when I say that I'm not J.K._

I will reiterate: I am probably not going to answer any reviews still right now because I am very busy. Thanks so much for reading, and do review! It makes me more happy than I can express in words.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

**Chapter 15**

Hermione observed Odin discreetly as he walked over to Marty, to join him in the corner. The old man slapped the young one on the back affectionately, and Odin began to talk in quiet tones. Melodic was his voice, and soothing was his sweet accent, unhardened by the desperate life lived by so many frequenters of Moriaty's, soft and pliable and melancholic. Hermione could not tell if Marty ever replied beyond a gentle nod or a groan, but the men's strange conversation continued through two more large pots, a few saucepans, and innumerable bowls and plates. There was no one else in Moriaty's Kitchen at the time save them, and if they had been talking even just a few decibels louder Hermione would have banged less and listened more. However, as it was, she tried to quell her curiosity by making as much noise as she could. It kept her thoughts from going back to the genteel young man in the corner, kept her from being, in a sense, unfaithful to Snape.

_But what have I gotten from him to remain faithful? _she questioned, then realized with even more disgust that with every thought about herself and Snape she was being unfaithful to Ron. _Well, that sweet idiot's just asking for me to be unfaithful to him. He's just not stimulating, gosh darn it! He's just there to make me happy when I'm not busy. He's not really a primary concern, as cruel as that sounds._

_What was interesting, though, is how that man . . . Odin . . . could almost read my mind. _

The flirting thought that perhaps he was a legilimens flitted through her mind, but she dismissed it entirely. _He said I looked like I was planning someone's death. Some woman's in particular, he said. He wouldn't have said that if he were really a legilimens . . . for really, I'm jealous of a woman who is already dead._

And then she was struck with the thought that had struck her a few times before and made little impression.

_But Christ! I'm jealous of a dead woman who was the mother of my best friend!_

She digested this information and filed it away as inapplicable. _After all, it's not as though Snape's Harry's dad, as much as he would have wanted to have been. But then, if Odin was a legilimens, and he saw what was in my mind . . . well, perhaps he would say something like that just for the irony. There would therefore be irony in his irony . . . that's something almost that Draco Malfoy might appreciate beyond good food and fine wine._

Finished with the endless stack of dishes, she went to the refrigerator door to read the menu for dinner. At this, she heard the quaking screech of a chair being pushed back and the tread of rubber soles on the linoleum floor.

"I say, Mademoiselle Hermione, isn't there anything to eat around here? I daresay, it is a Kitchen, but I haven't seen a morsel all day and I'm part starved."

Hermione turned to regard Odin, who seemed completely serious but carried a sort of laughing glint in his eye. Marty, she saw behind him, had dozed off to sleep.

"It's pasta night," she said carefully, intimating that he ought not be asking. However, at his mournful pouting, she drew some white bread from the cupboard, along with some jelly. "But, I wouldn't begrudge you a sandwich."

"Ah, mademoiselle, but you are an angel."

He watched her intently as she spread the watery raspberry stuff that Ms. Warner claimed to be home-made by her neighbor, and she was vaguely reminded of the saying _Well, a cat may look at a king. _Which, this brought to mind the Cheshire Cat from Alice in Wonderland, and she wondered if perhaps Odin might be described in kind.

Sandwich in hand, Odin strangely gnawed first on the crust, disappearing this very quickly before continuing to the softer interior of the bread, which he consumed at a much more leisurely rate. Hermione watched with some interest, understanding that he saved the best for last, and savored it. _He seems to have a penchant for fine things, even when they are not inherently very fine. He has the tastes of a Malfoy but the practicality of . . . oh, well, me. _

Finishing the sandwich at last, Odin licked each one of his fingers meticulously, as though he had partaken in the most exquisite meal of gourmet rather than the simple and rather revolting fare of charity.

"Mademoiselle, you are far too good for this earth," the young man said jubilantly, smiling as an innane continental might if proferred a box of delicate chocolates. "That was the most sufficient meal I have had in days."

He did not seem to be vying for pity, but he wholeheartedly earned it. Hermione, guilt rising in her bosom as she thought of the hearty bowl of wheat crisps she had consumed for breakfast that morning, decided he deserved a little more than the measly little bit she had given him, if only because he fascinated her and was excruciatingly polite. She opened the fridge and withdrew the sack lunch she had brought from home for herself.

"Here; it seems you need this more than I," she said calmly. Astonished, or else making a great show of it, Odin took the bag and poked his elegantly-formed Grecian nose into its recesses. He raised his eyes again, and she saw his cheeks were slightly pink and his eyes a little glassy.

"May I seem a trifle ungrateful?" he proposed with all gentlemanliness, "I must give some of this back."

"Oh?" Hermione asked, somewhat surprised. She rather had assumed he would take it and devour it all right then and there before her eyes.

"Yes, indeed. Here." He withdrew a sweet muffin and placed it on the counter. "Unfortunately, I am allergic to sugar, and I cannot take this without endangering my life."

Hermione squinted at him, because he had just consumed a jelly sandwich that likely consisted of more sugar than raspberry. She was a bit worried that he might drop dead as a result, and she was honestly terrified that such a virile, life-filled young man might die before her eyes. But as he began to empty out her bag further, she saw he was only making a pretense.

A bottle of fruit tea. "A most pleasant thing, sweet tea, but unfortunately I find that this particular brand is singularly prone to giving me heartburn. Alas, but I must also turn this down."

A dark ruby apple. He smiled dolefully. "Although apples are among the most precious delicacies on earth--resplendent of knowledge, reflective of the First Sin, and effective in that they keep the doctor, and scurvy, away. However, I fear my left canine is inopportunely loose, and I fear the moist red flesh of an apple would only aggravate it. You may keep the fruit, to preserve the youthful rose in your lovely cheeks."

A little bag of pistachios. "Ah, one of the most healthful of the nuts and legumes. Low in carbohydrates, and high in nutrients." He shook his head with a degree of mournfulness. "_Malhereusement_, I must forebear against these also, for a very nasty man I once knew who insulted me very dreadfully said that I would feast upon nothing but them for the rest of my life. Since I have foregone the little harmless things so as to prove to myself that I would not."

_He certainly has a way of speaking, _Hermione thought, her regard for the man was growing intensely.

"A tuna-salad sandwich! Ah, my lady, but I am certain you have heard of the mercurial excesses found in albacore, have you not? It has been advised not to eat fish more than once a week and alas! Last sunday I found and consumed a good half of a perfectly sound flounder left in a carton on a park bench. But it is very inconsiderate for me to endanger your bodily health by not confiscating the sandwich, too, so I shall compromise by accepting but half of it."

Hermione giggled outright, and in response Odin wiggled his eyebrows with some amusement.

"And at last we come to one of the most fine of edible flora--celery. This I shall indeed accept, dear precious lady, for it is one of the most fufilling of all foods--what it lacks in calories it replenishes wholly in taste."

This last set Hermione laughing entirely, exclaiming "Oh, but you are too much a gentleman!"

As the sound of laughter was always an intererest of Ms. Warner, it only followed that she took her cue to enter at that time. "Oh, my dear little Odin!" she crooned as soon as she saw the man, and she bounced across the room to ensconce the gaunt round-faced man in her arms. Odin seemed particularly amused, but returned the embrace decently, as a prodigal son might hug his mother upon his shamefaced return. Upon Ms. Warner's release, Odin was a trifle pink, but smiling.

"And how are you, lovely Dame Warner?"

"All the better now that you're here, you precious thing!" Ms. Warner exclaimed, turning pinker than Odin himself, and she pinched his cheek fondly. "Has Miss Granger given you something to eat?"

"Yes," Odin said, showing the half tuna sandwich and the stick of celery he had received.

"Hmph! Celery and half a sandwich! Certainly not enough for a growing boy! What's in this bag?" And she proceeded to nip her nose into the bag with the majority of Hermione's lunch, left unobtrusively on the counter by Odin. Upon seeing the contents, she thrust the bag into his hands. "Here, it's food, take it."

"But Madame Warner--"

"--Eat it!"

The two young people looked at each other, trying not to laugh, then, tediously, Odin began to nibble the crust of his sandwich. _Going from the outside in, again, I see, _Hermione noted. _I wonder if that's how he does things in bed? _But at this, a wave of horror and amusement struck her, and she laughed rather too loud. The young man whom she contemplated glanced at her, seriously asking what she found humerous in the situation, she could not reply. Instead, she to grabbed a clean dishrag and put it in her face, biting the edge until she no longer felt like laughing. _My God, I'm so boy-crazy but I don't know why. I keep falling in and out of love with a man I'll never have, I am severely leading-on a poor little boy who I'll never really want, and now here I am considering bedding a homeless creep with a pedantic streak! People say men have sex on their mind all the time--if I, such a close-knit wench, think about it this often, what must it be like for other girls who are less stubborn!_

Finally she smoothed her apron and her face, erasing all traces of lost composure. Odin was in the choice center of the sandwich by now, savoring every bite while Ms. Warner stood predator-like above him, as though to be certain he did not run away from his nutrients.

Across the room, in a sleepy voice, Marty prompted, "Ye never did tell me where ye've been all this time, bloke."

Unnaturally relieved from the abandonment of his meal, Odin smiled and turned to address the old man. "Marty, I'll tell you. I've been all over since I came here last. I went and saw Austria, mostly. Beautiful country." He made great use of his hands when he spoke, like the Italians, supplementing visually what he could not portray in words. "I marched through the great, vast countriside of Switzerland, too. I begged at every chalet I came to, and was accepted at perhaps one out of four. Usually they threw something at me; a schnitzel-pan, in most cases, but sometimes they threw the actual schnitzel at me. Very fine people, the Germans."

It was clear that this last comment was clothed in irony, and Ms. Warner clucked in sympathy.

"Occasionally, some seemed as though they wanted to make me into a schnitzel; I'm sure I barely just escaped with my head from those houses."

Marty laughed uproriously at this--Marty, the silent, Marty, the unspeaking! It was slightly unnerving.

Odin continued in a listless manner. "I climbed all through the Alps in these clothes--yes, this very jacket! These very shoes! That is why they are so inordinately worn; I suppose I must find another pair somewhere, though my size is hard to come by."

"I found a pair of your size at a rummage sale a month ago!" exclaimed Ms. Warner eagerly. "Let me see if I've still got them--I'm sure I do; I bought them for you. Very decent shoes, not worn at all. You'll probably get blisters breaking them in, though."

"Madame Warner, you are an absolute dream! A marvel! A glorious rain of sunshine striking through the windowpanes lighting up this kitchen!"

As Ms. Warner bustled happily out of the room, Odin asked quiety, "Mademoisele Hermione, you are the one who has been cleaning this place, are you not?"

"Well, yes," Hermione replied, feeling as though she earned unduly-given praise; all she had done was scourgify the place severely when no one was about to see.

"The walls shine, the ceiling is spotless, and the curtains have been washed, starched, and ironed--an impossible scenario in the case of our poor dear Madame Warner's feverish soul working alone."

"Well, thanks." Hermione smiled sheepishly at the young man who so captivated her attentions.

Odin then sighed, taking off his holey shoes. "Ah, I am so glad to be back in England!"

"You seem a well-travelled sort," Hermione replied, not sure what else she could say; honestly, she envied him his liberty to travel and see the world, unhampered by the anchors of luxury and safety.

He nodded, again coming close to reading her mind. "Many people would die to have seen the world as I have, mademoiselle. Many of these people are more rich, more intelligent, and more interesting than I. However, they would never have the gumption to forsake all in order to live as I live; I do not blame them, though."

Hermione pulled up a chair for herself and sat down next to him. "Where did you get the inspiration to do this?" she asked, hoping she did not seem too nosey. _My insatiable curiosity will get the better of me eventually._

The fascinating man shone a bitter smile upon her. "Misfortune, resentment, and alcohol put me on the streets, and when I was upon them I realized very quickly that asking for bread is the most humbling of experiences a man can undergo. Christ, after all, showed us the virtuosity of poverty." He smiled. "In any case, it took me some time, but I came to the conclusion that begging is one of the most universal fears of men, and yet it exists all around the world. The only difference between beggars is their language--and learning 'Le pain, si vous plait,' is not much different from 'Brot, bitte' or 'Pan, por favor', or even 'Pane, par favore'."

"How eloquent. And so to emblify this conclusion of yours, you decided to live it?"

"Precisely, mademoiselle. And it has done for me a world of good. I speak twenty languages fluently, or near-fluently, and I am acquainted with people from around the globe. If you need a man who is the greatest expert at shoing horses, I know a great man near Hapsburg. If you want the Russian _blini_--they really are excellent!--prepared by a good-hearted God-fearing family who used to be among the domestic servants to the tsars, I can get them for you. If you want a man who can tame the reatest dragons--"

"--Dragons?" asked Hermione, a split second after remembering that she was in the company of a purported Muggle who ought not know about dragons.

"--I mean of the stomach, ma cherie, I know an inventor in Romania who can create any sort of concoction you might need to calm them."

Hermione was becoming a little scared of Odin. Was he a wizard, and, if so, how did he recognize her to be a witch. _Good Merlin, you dunce! You're a celebrity in the other world--if he is a wizard, then certainly he is acquainted with you as an audience!_

Slightly unruffled at this realization, Hermione stood and went to the great ugly guillotine-like machine used for sterilizing the mass numbers of dishes that came through Moriaty's.

"So," she asked carefully, probing. "How long were you gone this last trip?"

"Ah, but I do not keep very good track of time. Often, my sleep is in a hay bale, or under a wagon--always someplace I find pleasant if I can at all help it, mind, but often in no way near a calender. I cannot bear the things. But I do know that I left England in March--for I always leave in March, and usually return only in late September, or whenever the weather changes for the worst."

"But it is only July, now. Why are you back early?"

Odin smiled with a disconcerting grin that set Hermione off-balance. "In my travels in the Alps, I sustained a few minor injuries, the least of which was a result of a rock slide. I am healed now, but you can still see the scar."

Extending his arm slowly, he rolled the sleeve of his tweed coat just a bit, and Hermione saw with dreadful clarity the faint gray residue left by the Dark Mark.

"I had no intention staying in a country where I was prone to be trampled; I very much respect the earth we tread on, and when it shows me very clearly that it does not want me, I see no reason to stay awhile. I try to be tactful, as much as possible, and--oh, shove it, Ms. Warner isn't around and dear old Marty's fast asleep."

He gestured for her to come closer, and she did, feeling much like a lamb being wooed into a lion's den. He rolled his sleeve down again as she glanced at the mark again in wonderment. Then, he whispered.

"I hated Voldy as much as the next man--and still do, by God in heaven I swear it!--but when a man's forced to earn his bread by singing opera on the streetside, he has really little choice but to form an alliance of some nature. The devil and I came to a compromise: I wanted to travel, he needed me to search for things on occasion, when he was not able to travel. He knew I hated him, for I made no secret of it, but to ensure my reliability he branded me. I must say, for Mephistopheles he was not that bad at keeping his end of the bargain; I got a small sum every year, and it was enough to maintain clothes on my back and buy myself dinner once in a while, plus transportation expenses. I have worked for him--if you could call such slaving to him decent honest 'work'--for nigh on five years, spending every day I could out of England, beyond his vicinity. But, I am sad to say, I was useful to him. Occasionally he would show up when I was in the middle of stewing something I had caught in the river, or writing in my journal, or something else one is apt to do in private, and give me commands. If I dared to double-cross him, there was pain--and lots of it. And if I were magic, like your sort . . . ah, but he would have terrorized the world much less, I am sure."

"Are you a squib, then?" Hermione asked, trying to get all the details straight before pronouncing any conclusions.

"Not truly. My uncle turned out to be a random warlock--or wizard, I forget which it specifically is--and so his sister was my mother, and she passed the tales of his amazing childhood down to me. She told it in rhetoric, so it seemed like metaphor, but she always precluded or ended her story with 'All I have told you is true' to some degree, and so I've always known that magic existed. And since I was not supposed to know, but did know, about the secret divided world within England, I was particularly useful to He-Whom-My-Tongue-Shall-Never-Name because the Ministry would never think it necessary to keep tabs on someone with so little magic in the family."

All this was truly exciting, and Hermione was even more interested in Odin than before he had divulged his secret.

"Do you wish you were magic?" she asked, trying not to sound like an inane little girl asking a man if he wished he were Santa or Prime Minister.

Odin's upper lip shifted, and he shook his shaggy brown locks. "I don't quite know. My Catholic upbringing urges me to scorn your sort as being consort to Lucifer, posessed, and in dire need of exorcism. On the other hand, I feel that I've met enough wizards and witches to know which are truly posessed, and which are just normal everyday people like yourself and I. There is a grave difference between you and Mrs. Bellatrix Lestrange, I daresay," he added with a slightly grim laugh.

"She's dead, if you have some personal vendetta against her."

His eyes turned from languid and brooding to jubilant. "Indeed? Who is the lucky murderer?"

"Mrs. Molly Weasley."

"Ah, yes, I have heard a little about the Weasleys. Your friend--the one who isn't Harry Potter--is one, if I remember correctly?"

_Ron. God. If he know how I was chatting up this fine acme of manhood . . . _"Oh, yes, that's right. Ronald Weasley. The only red-head in the Golden Trio."

She was surprised at how Odin laughed, for she thought she had infused the last sentence with intense bitterness. However, at her askance, he replied, "Oh, well, no, that isn't funny a'tall. What is amusing is that I said there is a _grave_ difference between you and Madame Lestrange . . . ahah!"

She found that amusing, too, and joined him in his laughter.

Then Ms. Warner came in, prattering incessantly to herself in frustration, then eagerly applying to the young man's attention.

"Oh, it took me so long to find them; I suppose I bought them a lot longer ago than I remembered, and I changed my residence from my old flat to the back storage room that no one ever used to want to go into--"

"--My dear Ms. Warner! I'm shocked! What gumption! What strength of character! I honestly and devoutly admire you. That back storage room, in my opinion, housed the devil incarnate. How ever did you manage to make it hospitable?"

"Oh, a bit of wax, a new lightbulb, a pretty new lampshade, and Miss Granger's very vigorous dusting--my word, she must really fly with a feather-duster!--and it was at least presentable. In time I mean to replace the broken windowpanes with real glass, not cardboard like they have now, and get some nice maroon curtains--isn't that what they have in rich old houses, dear?--and perhaps find an old antique headboard and baseboard; I've been scanning the sale ads for a month now and been to every good rummage sale from here to South Hampton, I do swear! And then it will be absolutely topping."

"I'm certain, Ms. Warner! But look a these shoes on my feet--they're simply dashing!"

"Odin, what is the word for 'shoes' in French?"

"Les chausseres."

"And how do you say 'These shoes are topping' in French?"

Odin smiled, stood, and hugged Ms. Warner indulgently. "Well, rather simplified, it would be something like 'Ces chauserres sont tres beau!' Is that satisfactory?"

"Quite. But, my dear, I must go rotate the laundry; don't disappear."

Hermione remained on her chair, thinking. "You might work as a translator if you were truly desperate for work," she suggested helpfully.

"Eh, that sounds boring."

"But why not? If you're starving, and willing to work for Voldemort--"

"Volde-who?" asked Marty groggily from the counter. "Odin, you've been _working_?"

Odin rolled his eyes in displeasure, the first indication of dissatisfaction with Hermione. "Now I shan't tell you anything," he said in as haughty a manner as he could muster. "How could you be so extolled for your virtue of intelligence when you can't even know when to keep your tongue? Oh, my dear, I'm sorry." For Hermione, at this comment, was stricken. Her eyes lowered meekly to her lap, and she felt her heart constricting. _Even Snape knows and accepts my intelligence_ she thought unhappily, and it was this thought that predominantly set her eyes glassy.

In a fraternal fashion, Odin rose and put his arm around Hermione's shoulder, massaging her blade with a circular motion of his thumb. "There, there, I didn't mean that," he said quietly, "But what I haven't to explained to you--for we have known each other less than an hour, Mademoiselle--is that I have a particular hatred for working for _money_. Now I'm not averse to helping a farmer in his field for the day in exchange for a bit at his table at supper. But money truly disgusts me, and I use it only when barter will not suffice--in the case of public transportation and fine restaurants, mostly. If I were to settle down at making a three-figure living as a translator, I'd be off busy making trust funds and investing and speculating, and where's the fun of that? Making more money when you already have so much? I simply do not understand it, and I detest it. It's like winning a game at which you've already championed, like beating a dead horse. I don't see the value in it, not fully. When I am older, perhaps I shall appreciate it more, but in the prime of my youth I care little about it."

Hermione nodded, feeling as though she understood this character a little better. _He's both vexing and innocent, youthful and talented and interesting and . . . my goodness, he does't snark! _

She was supremely shocked at herself for still continuing the idea that she might want to be more involved with his man, but for some reason she did not feel as though she were descending in the social heirarchy, but instead elevating herself. _The main difference between himself and Snape is that he's lazy, and Snape is not. But, _she reasoned with pathos, _look who is the more happy with his life. _

"Now, I've talked so much about myself, today," Odin said gaily, patting her shoulder firmly and going over to where Hermione had been sorting the clean dishes. "I'd like to hear about you."

_He certainly knows how to treat women_, Hermione thought, and wondered what sort of experience he had had in the past. _Better not think of that now. _Joining him at the work-counter, she began the tedious process of confessing her heart, hesitantly at first, but gaining in acceleration with his cohesive and concise evaluations.

She told him everything--about how she really did not love Ron, how she really did love Snape, but how she felt utterly confused and bewildered by her life, and she did mean to pursue at a--(whispered)--_Muggle _university but had no idea how to choose a major in something she had virtually no experience in, how she so wished to be able to just live life in his way, traveling at leisure for six months of the year . . . all of this poured out of her, filling the cups and bowls they were putting away, and Odin carefully listened, examined each proposition, and seemed to filter each with equal objectivity.

She confessed the problem of Snape's obsession with a dead woman, and how she so wanted to confront it, but it wasn't exactly the kind of thing that anyone would help her do, since most of her friends were disgusted at the prospect of even hosting Snape in her house as a kind of boarder, much less the prospect of helping him get over his emotional and (as Odin supposed) possibly mental blockades. She explained this reticence as being a 'Gryffindor thing', one more reason why the psychological inbreeding of personalities at Hogwarts in the House System was faulty. This had been a fixation of hers since about fourth or fifth year, that the House System really was no more than a way of creating unnecessary stereotype and rivallry between the students--as if their world, with all the problems between werewolves and Muggle-borns and half-giants etc., needed any more sectionalism! And it was all started when she realized how hard it was to work with her fellow Gryffindor students; they were so hard-headed and insistent upon being procrastinators up until the end that she just grew so fed up she studied only with Luna (and other Ravenclaws or diligent Hufflepuffs, but mostly Luna because they were both excluded from sociality in two different ways--Hermione had problems with her peers, and Luna's peers had problems with her--but in both cases it was because of the House System) and in getting to know the girl she grew to understand her insight. Odin, although hitherto only barely acquainted with the House system, wholeheartedly agreed with her, but veered the topic back to her real passion, Snape, without her catching it at all until after the fact.

Oh, Odin was absolutely wonderful. They had the most personal of conversations, and they had scarcely known each other a few hours. He helped with the preparation of 'pasta night' and even served the shuffling crowd, adding an element of personality to it all that Hermione had been unable to capture. He knew all their names, and gave each a smile and a suave compliment, almost his way of saying 'Here, I don't have much, but take this, it's yours.'

And it ended up being absolutely true, what he said about his upper left canine. It _was_ loose, with a new tooth growing in from underneath, despite the fact that he did claim to be twenty-two. (Though, admittedly, by his sublime reasoning she felt he was older, while his body seemed scarcely above eighteen.) Hermione felt that her parents would be highly interested in his case of late development, and arranged that he visit their office sometime very soon.

All in all, Odin was by far one of the most inspiring people she met in Moriaty's--even surpassing Marty--and she regarded him as virtually an experience in himself.

She decided she was in love with him that night, though she felt tremendously unfaithful to Snape. _But he did leave me_, she assuaged herself, and she drifted off to sleep dreaming of being in Odin's arms.

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The HILLS are ALIVE, with the SOUND of REVIEWERS!!!!!!!!!!!!! ohhhhhhhhhhohhhhhhohhhhh! (Thinking about Odin's travels makes me think about the Von Trapps, totally.)

Come on. Review. It's what you do.


	16. On Happiness and Honesty

_I'm not just kidding when I say that I'm not J.K._

I am back to answering reviews, at least most of them. Thanks so much for reading, and do review! It makes me more happy than I can express in words.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

**Chapter 16**

The front door closed as Becky gently pulled the handle shut behind her, and Snape sighed a great breath of relief. _That woman is too annoyingly sanguine for her own good _he considered savagely, sinking down upon his suitcase to survey his surroundings.

_Well, I guess this is my house. _This notion brought a queer, resistant smile to his lips. _It feels more like it's mine than the dreadful mess at Spinner's End ever did. That was the house paid for by mum and dad which I kept past their deaths and its usefulness. This has perhaps a century of history behind it, which Spinner's End for all its decrepit glamor can not beat, but the reason that this place is so beautiful is because it has quality. Quality both in the people that lived there once and the making. Spinner's End was a bloody facsimile of hundreds of houses in the suburbs of London. It had no quality--not this kind of quality._

His feet ached to wiggle from his boots, to shuffle along the floor and absorb the grained, smooth, solid texture of the peg-and-wood planking of the entryway. Some distance away, he saw the mahogany bannister glimmering in the old electric lights which Becky had commanded to work (however feebly). It beckoned for him to drag his valise upstairs and settle down on one of the beds that had not been turned down in over a decade, to examine the landscape pictures in the hall abovestairs, to turn on the scratchy phonograph in the lounge and open all the doors in the house and let the archaic swing music float through the house. The latter made Snape smile; the very idea made him wonder if there were any ghosts in this place. However, he reasoned, based on Becky's happy-go-lucky cheerfulness and the general atmosphere of the house, he could not rightfully imagine that any dwelt there. Though the place was spacious, and slightly drafty (as he personally liked), he found that it was airy and not at all oppressive or gloomy. He saw this as the kind of house where grandiose parties were held every Saturday afternoon, sweeping dances every Saturday night, lavish dinners for passing politicians and persons of note, etcetera. It was not a house of tragedy.

He 'felt' a hand on his shoulder, and 'Lily' stood there, pouting. "Come on, your idea about music was a good one," she said with faux petulance. "I want to dance with you in the ballroom."

Becky had showed off the gramophone the previous morning, and Snape was reasonably certain he could make it work again with ease. Nodding at the woman he loved, he left his case (and her pretend ones) in the entryway in lieu of more romantic endeavors. There would be plenty of time to explore the intricacies of their bedroom furniture later--both the bureaus and the bedstead.

He easily levitated the slightly dusty, fickle machine on its table into the ballroom, and there cast a few charms at it until it began satisfactorily.

The vastness of the ballroom he surveyed with due appreciation, admiring the contrasting checkered-tile floor. It was, in his frank opinion, beautiful. He loved the black and white checkerboard effect. To his mind, he instantly associated the black with himself and the white with his snow-pure Lily.

He 'felt' a tug at his sleeve. "Come on, Sev," she encouraged him. "It'll be fun, I know."

"Of course, my dear," he replied obligingly, and, with a smile Hermione would have died for, he placed a hand on her hip, another on her shoulder, and he took his 'Lily' in a graceful, fluent dance across the room, thinking himself the luckiest Black King in the world to have won the White Queen.

He was really very happy.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

"Say 'Ah', Mr. Temple," Dr. Granger stated stoically, instruments in hand.

Odin glanced sheepishly at Hermione, then opened his mouth wide, omitting the 'Ah' noise.

Dr. Granger almost pulled away before he got a chance to look closely at Odin's teeth.

"Great Scott! Since when was the last time you brushed? Much less flossed?"

Odin, with the great perplexing situation of not knowing whether to answer the dentist with normal fluent speech and a closed jaw _or _just answer as best as possible with his mouth open, opted for the latter and replied indistinctly, "Ae-ee ithe ears ago?"

The question was evidentially rhetorical, however, for Dr. Granger was at the moment shuffling around the room, preparing his teeth-cleaning instruments and muttering incoherently to himself. "Damned nuisance . . . don't know what's wrong with kids these days . . ."

He set his tools down and grimly stared Odin in the eye.

"Young man, you sure as hell start cleaning those teeth of yours, you understand?"

Glum, Odin nodded, but Hermione noticed from afar that as Dr. Granger stepped away from his patient, Odin's tongue was stuck very firmly in his cheek. While the doctor resumed his instrument collecting, the young man and Hermione shared a subtle glance. She could see his eyes dancing in mirth.

Mrs. Granger suddenly appeared at the doorway, a clipboard in hand. "Mr. Temple?" she asked briskly, stepping to the side of the tilted-back chair, "Is this second digit in your age a seven or a two?"

"Sevehn," Odin replied, still mindful of keeping his mouth open, rather unnecessarily.

She shook her head vaguely. "Oh, thank you," she said, handing back the basic UK ID card he had given for his patient registration.

He had the dignity to look abashed at Hermione's look of askance. Squinting and putting a hand to her forehead, she walked away from the reclining chair and dentistry apparatus to look out the window onto the corner of Harley St. and Devonshire St.

_He deliberately lied to me about his age_ she pondered with some chagrin. _By five years. Which, granted, that's not a lot, except it makes him almost ten years older than me rather than a mere four. That's not fair. This man's got some secrets; he's not all he seems._

She sighed, watching the parade of black cabs as they merged in the afternoon traffic, about half of them turning onto Devonshire from Harley and the other half turning onto Harley from Devonshire.

_Then again, I don't think he's dangerous. Certainly not as dangerous as Severus Snape._

A stab of guilt firmly planted itself in her heart as she thought of the long-lost professor._ But best to get on with life and not spend it lamenting, _she thought sadly. _Where one door closes another opens, after all. Perhaps Odin is my other door?_

She glanced over at the young man who grimaced under the grinding of her father's whirring teeth-cleaning tool, and she could not help but smile at his all-too-British stoic cringe and stiff-upper-lip grip on his chair.

_Well, I think he's being punished enough for his lie_, she thought, and as his melancholy hazel eyes met hers, she grinned widely.

_Suffer. Suffer._

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

Severus collapsed, laughing, into the mass of recently plumped-up cushions which dated back perhaps ten years, and he revelled in the knowledge that he sat upon the great king-sized bed of the Master Bedroom. _The Master Bedroom. Ah, what a name can do to a man's egotism! _It made him feel incredibly self-sufficient and independent.

His 'Lily' was already stripping to the bare, all too eager for an exciting night ahead in their own bedroom in their own house to be awoken only in their own good time. Contrarily, he went more slowly than usual, making the unlacing of his beaten brown Muggle Oxfords a more tedious affair than they were worth.

"One shoe--two shoe," he said, fitting the word to the actions, as casual as though remarking on state of the weather. "One sock--two sock."

He 'felt' a heavy head at the small of his back, and two viny arms wrapping around his middle.

"One belt" 'said' his 'Lily', and he closed his eyes while pretending his own fingers belonged to the hands of the woman he loved. The gentle fumbling of the brass buckle was followed by the smooth slithering of the excess leather, and then by the continued motion of the entire apparatus being guided through the belt loops of his trousers and discarded with a thump upon the thick carpet. The result of this was the mount of an erection.

_God, that was sexy._

At that point, 'Lily' was apparently as impatient as a cow left unmilked for a week, and the buttons on his shirt were almost ripped off, his trousers almost slid off on their own accord, and his underclothing was practically sheared off of his body.

He barely remembered to douse the candle before submitting to an incredibly 'festive' evening. The euphoria lasted even longer when enhanced by a bottle of sweet liquer and a box of chocolates conveniently placed at the bedside beforehand.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

Hermione was escorted by Odin out the door of her parents' office with excessive politeness, and they faltered out onto the street and into a cab before Hermione exploded.

"How come you told me you were twenty-two?" she reprimanded severely, after indicating to the driver that they were returning to Moriaty's Bread and Butter Kitchen. "You made explicit mention of it; I never asked you for the information!"

Odin sighed, plaintive and miserable. "I know it. I know it. I deserve your wrath, Miss Granger, indeed. Alas, I am somewhat of a chronic liar, and although most of the time my fables never return to haunt me, sometimes I forget that there exist intelligent people in the world who can indeed find me out before I leave town again. That, and my travel habits tend to sponsor such a quick and false tongue."

She eyed him suspiciously. "Is it your habits that sponsor your tongue, or your tongue which sponsors your habits?"

He appeared to think about this deeply. "Do you know, I never considered that?"

Hermione rolled her eyes conspiciously. "Of course you have; you're not daft."

He sighed in encore. "Right again, right again. Do you know, Miss Granger, you're one of the most intelligent people I know of?"

"How do I know that's not another lie?" asked Hermione, turning her head towards the windowpane and placing her forehead against it.

"Ah, that's the crux of the matter; I'm not certain that's the truth myself."

"Oh!" She felt like throwing something at him, and lamented that she carried a wallet and not a handbag. "You're so--obnoxious!"

"Isn't the principle of man obnoxious?" Odin asked in an altogether inappropriate philosophical manner.

"Now is _not _the time to wax pensive," scolded Hermione, but at that instant she realized how strange it felt to tell someone that. _After seven years of enduring the frankly imbecilic antics of Ronald and Harry, no wonder it feels so exhilerating, so liberating, to talk to this man, no matter how crooked he may be._

"My dear, you are quite right. That's the problem with intelligent women and feeble men; the latter sort must always submit or face hypocrisy, for they never really are right."

She almost wanted to scold him for berating himself, but then was reminded as she gazed at him just exactly for what she had entered such heated conversation.

"I may be right, but why did you lie about your age? There must have been some reason, besides your self-proclaimed career as a chronic liar."

Odin shifted, but otherwise gave no indication of unease. "To be quite honest, Miss Granger, I don't have the faintest. Save the fact that you are an attractive young woman who might be out of my league given the fact that we are close to a decade apart in age, I see no reason why I should have given you misinformation upon our first meeting."

It was Hermione's turn to judge him. "You're a concieted fool," she declared, raising her eyebrows at him and leaning heavily on the seat in exasperation.

"You're not quite right there, Mademoiselle." At the resumption of his somewhat less-formal title, her head snapped sharply back to look at him. "I'd rather say I'm not to be classified as a fool."

She was not certain if he was joking or not, but she laughed loudly at this proposition, and he wiggled his eyebrows at her in gentle mocking reply.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

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	17. On Punitiveness and Depression

_I'm not just kidding when I say that I'm not J.K._

Thanks so much for reading, and do review! It makes me more happy than I can express in words.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

**Chapter 17**

Indeed, after their discussion about his honesty in the cab the week before, Odin had made what was supposedly a sincere attempt to curb his malarkey. Every time he pronounced a phrase that was even vaguely untrue, important or not, he corrected himself with proper self-admonishment and a request for her to hit him with a schinitzel-pan. Though, sometimes he asked for his intestines to be made into schnitzel, for he had rather a morbid preoccupation with the Austrian sausage.

In any case, he had maintained a constant presence at Moriaty's, and everyone was the happier for it. Ms. Warner hummed about her business, tripping more than usual in her heavy clogs, and making herself less and less useful in the kitchen for her good-natured ambling. Marty was sleeping less and talking more, staying up late into the night over a bottle of whiskey with Odin. Odin himself seemed to be doing quite well, visibly filling out his fragile thin frame even in that short period of time with the Molly-Weasley-ish prodding of Ms. Warner for him to eat.

Hermione had some major affairs to concern her, however. Ron had forgone, or so Harry informed her, the pursuit of Lavender Brown on the grounds that it was fruitless and, as Harry very untactfully put it, was that she was "fucking the life out of that no-good crap Lowell Lyland." Which Hermione thought very little of indeed--she remembered Lowell as being one of the only non-Asians in Arinthmancy Honors besides herself, and consequently they had a habit of orbiting closely in class. He was, in fact, a very kind and respectful young man with particular moral prohibitions that led her to believe that he was innocently courting Lavender for her own sake, sans sex. Lowell was a highly Victorian prude type of guy. Not that Hermione thought he deserved Lavender, whom she privately considered an attention whore, but she knew he was a Muggleborn and probably trying to work his way up in the world, thus increasing the probability that his Slytherin tendencies were attracted to the pretty pureblood, mindless or no.

Anyway, Hermione was sure she did not know the exact dynamics of the situation, and said as much to Odin, and he said of it: "Quite the _c'est la vie_ sort of situation there, my dear mademoiselle, _n'est pas_?"

To which Hermione replied, vaguely, "Essentially." She returned, "But what to do about Ron, I just don't know."

"Why must you do something with Ron?" Odin pragmatically suggested. "Is he your son?"

"No."

"Is he your brother?"

"I think of him as such."

"But you are, by blood, not. Thus, why must you infiltrate and usurp the positions of those very fine women whom you tell me fill those roles?"

"Because his sister is besotted by my other best friend and his mother is undergoing manic depression, that's why!"

Odin's voice and demeanor changed. "Oh, I see," he said sadly. "So, as the friend, you must step into their shoes."

"Quite right," Hermione relied, accidentially knocking the knob of the sink with her elbow. With an infuriated growl, she turned the water back on again and resumed her dishwashing. Odin amicably took a dishrag from a hook and began to mop up the water that was sloshed over the counter in the process.

"Well," he proposed solemnly, "The quickest and most simple answer is to get back with him again."

"Are you crazy? Have I not said enough that I really don't fancy him that way?"

"You have, my dear," Odin said gallantly, "But if you are so concerned for his welfare it is by far the most simple and unfailing resolution."

"Maybe," Hermione repled, clearly dubious, "But I don't want to give him false hopes. Oh I'm so stupid!" she lamented suddenly, "I shouldn't have dumped him at all!"

As she said this, she suddenly and most unexpectedly began to cry softly.

_Oh Snape, Snape, it's all your ruddy fault._

Odin seemed unpertubed, and easily drew her into a hug. "Oh, Hermione, _ma cherie_, please, do not berate yourself," he insisted, and patted her eyes with the damp rag in his hand.

She recovered quickly as she wondered where that rag might have been before enlisted to dry dishes, so she disentangled herself from him and tried to smile.

"I guess I'm asking for your advice," she attempted. "So, in your opinion, my feelings aside, should I or should I not get back with Ron?"

"The problem with you, Hermione," Odin demurely replied, "Is that you are too damn selfless. All things considered, I believe you absolutely should not get back with your ex-boyfriend. It will only do more long-term damage, and, as you yourself said, give him false hopes. Be a hedonist, for once, and do what feels right, not what you believe would provide temporary comfort to some poor broken soul." He leaned in closer, and suggested, "That's all you're doing here, you know. I can see what you haven't realized yet, probably--in response to your guilt, you came to work here at Moriaty's." He gestured at the drab walls around them and shook his head negatively. "What you do not see is that though the people who come here may get the nutrients to see them through another three days, get cleaned up enough to feel human for two days, and get a full stomach for one day, there is no long-term help to be had here."

"You're right," Hermione said suddenly, with passion, "I should get some self-help pamphlets, job advertisements, and maybe some Bibles--"

"--No, no, you are missing my point," Odin instructed, his voice rising. Hermione was silenced. "I'm not saying that you need to bring long-term aid to the people on the street. You don't really understand the culture. The people who are on the street, by my observations, _want_ to be on the street. I have, over my studies on them, classified them into a three neat categories: those who have come there via unfortunate circumstance, the mentally ill, and those who are there to punish themselves."

Hermione raised an eyebrow. Odin continued, shaking his head sadly. "I know this from experience, because I have been one of the self-punitive sort myself."

"Really? But why?"

"Wait, Hermione. I must say, those who were thrown to the sidewalks because of ill fortune got off them quickly enough. Those who are thrown out of their flats or the homes of their families will typically take up any job they can find, and get off the street through that route. The mentally ill are just that--mentally ill, and they do not usually have the coherence to take on a job. Sometimes they get picked up by family members or friends, sometimes they are picked up by the authorities. Either way, they usually make a spectacle of themselves to some degree, and thus they are removed from the streets in a fairly short time themselves. However, there are those who, like myself, remain on the street for much, much longer."

Hermione was quiet, and merely waited for her friend to continue.

"These are the people so dissatisfied with themselves that they feel the need to live a lifestyle that earns them the pity they inherently 'deserve'. They are parasites, Hermione, and live on the streets only because they feel they must atone in some way. They feel a martyrlike satisfaction when they live on only the crusts of the rich. They often have more money than one would imagine, stashed somewhere unobvious, and that is why they will refuse money. They feel they are not good enough to have anything besides what is thrown in dumpsters, they feel that they are unsuited to live a normal healthy life."

He turned quiet after this last pronouncement, and began to vigorously dab at a wet dish left hanging in the air by Hermione. Giving him her full attention, she turned to him.

"You can't expect me to believe that you think so little of yourself, do you?" she asked pointedly. At this Odin laughed.

"You are shrewd, ma cherie, and quite right--as of now, I do not have such an inferiority complex. In fact, it was the realization of all I have just told you that ended it. Since, I have kept off the street when I am in the city by being here, and other hostels, and when I am in the country, the nature's trees make my roof. I do no longer sleep in tunnels and on park benches. Granted, for a time I did, but for the past many years I have surpassed my peers in _joi de vivre_. I turned my suffering into one of the most blessed pastimes--travel and exploration--and I never have regretted it."

Hermione nodded, but was not quite convinced. "I see," she said quietly. She promised herself to look at the partakers of Moriaty's a bit closer, to see of Odin's analysis was correct.

She was by no means settled on the topic of Ron, however, so she moved back to that topic.

"But how does all this apply to my wanting to do something for Ron?"

"Ah! I apologize; I do ramble on occasion. Well, I only meant to examine the fact that your subconscience reacts in a parallel way to your conscious mind. Now, tell me, why exactly did you come to work here at this kitchen?"

Hermione shrugged. "Well, I felt like paying back to the community in a small way."

"A small way. Exactly. Not a great way. If you intended to help in a great way, you would have come up with a program to raise a hundred million dollars to found and operate a vocational school of some nature. That is the difference between long-term help and short-term help, the overall effect it creates and how long the effect lasts. Education, my dear, lasts forever. Give a man a fish and feed him for one day, teach him to fish and feed him for the rest of his life--that rot. And that is what it is to help your Ronald--by doing something now may help him in a little way, but you may end up continuing to do so without helping him to stand upon his own two feet. It is a little pathetic and immature, is it not, to be completely devestated by your dumping him?"

"Yes," Hermione replied, ashamed. "He has been a little pathetic and immature all his life, though--always overshadowed by his brothers, wanting so badly to prove himself, being overshadowed by Harry because of his fame and me because of my brains--he hasn't found his own way and I guess he never will romantically if I give in to him now."

Odin smiled and patted her on the shoulder. "And that is what I have been trying to tell you all along. For all my eloquence, you have said it precisely perfect in less time than I."

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

Odin and Hermione had a number of similarly memorable conversations, along the lines of philosophy and study and such, and a number of trivial conversations where where they discovered they really had quite a lot in common besides the obvious things. They both, for instance, had weak right eyes, though Odin was certain he needed glasses to compensate but had just never spent the money, while Hermione was certain she did not need them but had a pair anyway. They also had an identical fondness for cashews, which with his remedied teeth presented no difficulty towards Odin. Neither of them cared too much for sugary foods, but nonetheless had a tendency towards plumpness if they ate a normal 2000 calorie diet. Old movies such as East of Eden, Dr. Zhivago, and Lawrence of Arabia fascinated them, while Odin could definitely also appreciate Hermione's moderate love for musicals. They shared as well a secret and embarassing love for detective fiction. The library was their similar favorite place in the world, though Odin could not decide which of the great world collections was his favorite; he wanted to examine the Library of Congress in Washington DC before he made up his mind.

They really were getting on very well, in every respect. Hermione found his humor amusing, his company enjoyable, and his looks entrancing. Though he was in many respects perfect, she uncovered a few other minor faults in his character beyond his tendency towards periodic dishonesty. For instance, he loved a good joke, though not so much as the Weasley twins did; he pranked Ms. Warner once or twice, and scared Hermione to bits by jumping out at her at one time. Also, he sometimes could be pedantic, and long-winded, and talk at length on subjects that no one was interested in listening about. This brought Hermione to realize how some of her essays had been sent back with a 'please briefen', not only from Snape but other teachers. He also laughed rather too loudly, and occasionally cursed too explicitly. He also had times of blatant egotism and then pensive melencholy, which made him a diverse character.

In any case, they were getting on quite lovely.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

The first week Severus spent with 'Lily' in Huckleberry House was pure intentional bliss. Nary a brash word between them, they took idle trips to the beach that was a half-mile walk from the back door, lounged in the fragrant untamed wild backyard, danced in the great checkered ballroom every night and spent riotous nights.

It was quick, however, for Snape to begin to feel dissatisfied with 'Lily' and his new lackadaisical lifestyle. He needed to go to Salem, some ten to fourteen miles off, and find an apothecary so he could start his brewing business, possibly mass-producing Wolfsbane. He took for granted that he would find wizards there, since the city was renowned for the Salem Witch Trials and all the notoriety surrounding it.

This was easier said than done. He spent two days in Salem, after bicycling there from the House, and could find neither hind nor tail of real wizards. He found many 'wizards' and 'warlocks' and 'witches', but all of a Wiccan type--all just Muggles who fancied that they had a kind of affinity to birds, trees, and animals. Any apothecary shop he entered held either 'gummy spiders' or Essence of Magical Horehound, which he smelt and realized they had polluted. Certainly no veritable professional-grade potions ingredients. This was depressing, and he had no real idea how to go about finding the nearest wizarding community besides sending a letter via Owl. Which, he did not have one, and there were only stuffed ones availiable in Salem.

In the evening of the second day he returned home much more depressed than he had left, and his arrival was greeted by an anxious 'Lily' who had not 'seen' him for two days. He entered the house feeling frustrated, throwing his satchel on the floor and storming upstairs to take a hot shower.

'Lily' was seemingly a little worried; once he was safely in the shower, he 'heard' the bathroom door open, and close, and then a nude 'Lily' 'joined' him in his shower.

"Severus," she said sadly, circling her arms around his wet waist and leaning her head on his water-sprayed shoulder, "You barely said hello."

"Hmph," he mumbled by way of a reply--though the hot water was catharic to his mood, he was still too tempered to trust his voice with 'Lily'. He grabbed the soap and began to scrub at his hair, which was the way he always cleaned it. (This was the secret to his greasy hair--his parents of low-class orgins never washed his hair as a kid with shampoo, just the bar of soap, and he never bothered to actually buy the stuff that everyone else used. He never thought there was really anything wrong with his hair as a result of not using proper hair products, hence why he never used them. Except the one time he did try Hermione's mum's herbal shampoo at the Granger house, which biased him against experimenting further in the line because it just smelled too sweet.)

"I'm sorry," he finally said, and explained in understatement, "I'm a bit tense."

'Lily' understood. "Of course, I understand." He did not need to explain it all to her, which was one of the nice things about their relationship. "You need to get busy again," she commented, "So let's go out tomorow and look for ingredients in the yard. I don't know what we'll find, but there's plenty of weeds and plenty of flowers. You should at least get equipment enough for a calming anti-depressant from the motley."

"Yes," Snape said. At this resolution, he let the water from the shower-head run all the soap out of his hair, and then, clean to his standards, he turned to face 'Lily'. An impish smirk graced his lips--just the slightest contraction of muscles--and he reached to gently remove the rubber band from Lily's hair and draw her into the water with him.

She looked so delicious beautiful when wet, of course.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

Then a letter came for Odin.

Hermione was not the one to receive it; it came by the morning post on a Saturday, the day she came late to work. Odin had not awoken yet by the time she got there at eleven, but Ms. Warner was talking nonstop about it nonetheless.

"Oh, Odin never receives letters, I mean _never! _He's such an unfettered boy, roaming where he pleases all the time, it's a wonder he's stayed with us for as long as a week without disappearing for a day or so. Normally if we were to receive a letter for him it would be put away in my desk and likely forgotten--hm, my dear, would you mind cleaning that out sometime soon? I just am asking while I'm thinking about it, you understand, no need to do it right away--but anyway, I'd have plumb forgotten it by the time he came around again, and then where would he be?"

"Without his correspondence, I expect," Hermione said dryly, stirring a bowl of mashed-potato flakes with water.

"Of course, but I don't expect this could be anything important, since he's not really got any family or anything," Ms. Warner rambled on, "And without insurance and such too, I expect. Oh! What a poor boy."

Hermione eyed the letter on the counter curiously. "It's on nice paper," she said carefully, "In fact, much nicer paper than I would expect."

"Perhaps it's from a friend in a foreign country?" asked Ms. Warner hopefully, eagerly.

As much as she herself wished to have a whiff of Alpine air or Corsican mimosa, Hermione had already noted the address to be that of a squared-away little town approaching Bristol.

"It's not; it's from an English lawyer."

_Muffler, Jamison, & Forbes _could really be nothing besides a law firm.

Undaunted, Ms. Warner suggested, "But it could be news from a friend in a foreign country directed to Odin's lawyer and forwarded here?"

"What? I have a lawyer? Goodness gracious, Dame Warner, I should think if I had one I knew so!" So saying, Odin appeared in the doorway, brushing wrinkles out of his jacket-sleeves.

The two women jumped on him mercilessly. "Open it, open it!" exclaimed Ms. Warner, and Hermione chorused with "Hurry up!" though she knew it was none of her business what the letter contained.

Odin did so, with a perplexed frown and a deft hand. It took him about two minutes for him to comprehend the gist of the letter's meaning, and upon his registration he sank down onto the floor.

"Fuck." The percussive word was like a dart flying to meet a bull's eye. "Fuck it all." He closed his eyes and reached for Ms. Warner's hand. "My dears, you're never going to believe this, but I'm rich. What a way to ruin a man's perfect life."

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

Come on. Review. It's what you do.


	18. On Lies and Disgrace

_I'm not just kidding when I say that I'm not J.K._

Thanks so much for reading, and do review! I love receiving reviews from y'all. And by the way, there really ought to be a formal word for y'all in English, like 'Vous' in French. Not that this opinion has any bearing on the chapter.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

**Chapter 18**

Muffler, Jameson and Forbes sent news that sent Odin into quiet perplexity while Hermione and Ms. Warner cooed over him.

"Rich? How so? You've inherited money?" asked Hermione, impulsively curious.

Ms. Warner was a little more compassionate, though more confused. "Honey, ducky, don't worry about it. Being rich isn't everything, you know."

An impatient 'harumph' drew all eyes to Marty, who was knocking the ashes from his unlit pipe into his hand. "Son, let me see that," he growled impassively, and Odin unhesitatingly presented the missle to the old man. Marty scanned the letter, his brow furrowing, but then threw the letter to the table.

"Good riddance," he muttered, turning on his heel abruptly and retreating to the lavatory. Hermione caught a swift glare of disgust directed at Odin, and a tear in the old man's eye, however, both of which he strove to hide.

She wondered what connection he had to the person(s) mentioned in the letter.

Ms. Warner, at this point, was reading the letter herself, aloud.

" . . . to the intimation that Mrs. Augusta Bernice Longbottom, upon her death, bequeathed the fortune of which she was the sole proprietor to be dispersed between her existing kin, sans her abusive husband, which at the point of her death are a mere two members, yourself Mr. O. Longbottom and your nephew Mr. Neville Longbottom IV. Her fortune vested in her by her father, the speculator Mr. Charles Maurice Hillindale, at the time of her marriage to Mr. Martin Longbottom, consisted at the time (1949) of one million pounds, but now is exponentially larger due to shrewd investments (many of which I myself assisted her in) and, if I may say so myself, incredible financial foresight. Her largest personal expense was the house she purchased for her son and your brother, Mr. Frank Longbottom, upon the date of his marriage to Miss Alice Forsythe, and the expense of her grandson and your nephew, Neville's education at Hogwarts."

Hermione's ears pricked up at the name of Longbottom, and she remembered vaguely seeing the strong, hard Mrs. Longbottom at Dumbledore's funeral. _Is she--she's dead? _

As Ms. Warner continued to read, Hermione was shocked to discover . . . _Odin is brother to Neville's dad? So he's Neville's Uncle? _He must have been even older than she thought.

"As there are no other inheritors to the fortune, save your nephew, it has been determined that you shall receive, tax duties removed, a total of ((what Hermione thought an incredibly large sum)) and inheritance of her home in ()shire. Please let me know at once when you have received this. The funeral is on August 2, at the ()shire Parish Church. I expect that you shall be there to pay respects to your lost mother. Respectfully, Bunter Forbes."

"Oh, so your mum is dead?" asked Ms. Warner fretfully, finally realizing that poor little Odin was not a complete orphan in need of love and attention that she had always imagined.

"Yes," Odin replied gravely, though he took Ms. Warner's hand warmly and assured her, "But she never cared much for me--I was, in essence, an accident, and she never forgave me of that trespass. I thought for sure she would disinherit me, as she did my dad."

"Oh, sweetie, pumpkin, I'm so sorry," Ms. Warner said sadly, wrapping her broad arms around Odin's shoulders, reassured of her importance to him. "But what's done is done. You can do a lot of good with all that money, though." With that, she graced a quick kiss on Odin's sloppy hair and departed to the kitchen, muttering something about making him some breakfast.

Hermione breathed carefully, thinking about the new change of situation. "You did not know that you would be left a fortune?" she asked Odin, and he shook his head. "That's interesting. Now tell me," she leaned towards him over the table, "Why did you lie to me? Why didn't you just say you were a squib?"

Odin's eyes got a little wider, and she suddenly got quite angry, to the point that she spat upon the table. "Just another lie. Another lie. God, Odin, you keep lying to me! Why didn't you give me the truth before?"

He seemed to have an answer, but she did not want to hear it.

"So you come from a family of prominent pure-blood wizards--a family which I actually know! Neville was in my class at Hogwarts! He was in my House! And you're his _UNCLE! _So your story about your involvement with Voldemort is a lie--"

"--Not entirely!" exclaimed Odin, putting a finger up to silence her, "Besides, I told you my 'life story' before I made that promise to you."

"Then I expect a much better explanation," Hermione replied airily, but quickly shut up as Ms. Warner came into the room with a bowl of cereal, some sausage, and a banana.

"Here, sweetums," she insisted, and sat down at the table to watch her semi-adopted son eat. Hermione glared savagely at Odin, who seemed more ashamed than ever, and he focused intently on his bowl, avoiding her eyes.

Marty emerged from the lavatory at that point, and strangely joined them at the table. Hermione thought he looked a little pale, but he was stoic as ever.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

Severus closed his eyes, listening to the background of pouring rain while the old Swing record called 'The Sweet Locust' played on the scratchy phonograph.

He was getting tired of the crap he was putting himself through.

Huckleberry House was getting older and older with every passing day, and 'Lily' was getting more and more distant. Severus barely saw much of her anymore, even at night. He slept longer and longer hours, and was less and less inclined to do anything with 'her'.

He was not taking care of himself at all. He had not showered, out of pure laziness, for two weeks. Additionally, he had not eaten more than a few bites of food at a time, whenever he remembered to do so. Most of his day was passed in sleep, with a few hours of consciousness that usually consisted of staring at the ceiling, relocating himself to the study with the purpose of finding a book, and then going back to sleep. He did drink some, but with little effect upon his mood or activities.

'The Sweet Locust' was playing for, as he had counted, the fifty-fourth time that day. The song was ten minutes thirty seconds long, and Snape felt as if he could play it on the piano upstairs if he cared enough to go upstairs. Which, he did not.

He was about to drift off to sleep again when a flash of lightning lit up the sky, and the study, and consequently startled Severus into an adrenaline rush. He shrugged his shoulders, let his eyes well with the stinging tears of too much light, and closed them to sleep some more. However, as he closed his eyes, 'Lily' made her first real appearance for a week.

She was wearing a long-sleeve high-neck brown jumper, but she had done her nails in red, and she wore a pair of very becoming denim jeans. Settling down next to Snape, she 'ran' her 'hands' along his shoulder blade, which made him shiver.

"Sev, honey, what's wrong with you? You haven't been yourself." He shivered again as he 'felt' her lean close to his ear, and sensed her 'breath' tickling his scalp. "Come on, oblige me, Sev."

She began to dance for him--sweet, slow, with precise rhythm calculated for seduction. Severus was not very turned on.

She began to wiggle out of her jumper, revealing a very low-cut black top that instantly attracted her companion's attention. She 'smiled' as a result.

"Careful now, not too fast," she giggled, and she jumped up, ran to behind the big desk, and hid behind it. Two pale hands emerged in her stead, and placed the black top upon the desk, removed from her body.

She must have 'disapparated', for then Severus 'heard' her giggling from the door leading to the kitchen hallway. "Catch me if you can," she insisted prettily, and he heard her chuck off two high-heeled shoes against the wall.

In response, he did stand, and wearily walked to open the door, where he did indeed 'find' a pair of scarlet spiked heels. He 'picked' them up and walked to where he thought he saw the kitchen door 'swinging.'

He 'saw' nothing but the 'jeans' left in the kitchen, but the door leading to the dining room was just 'swinging shut', as he saw it. So he continued to follow.

Her pantyhose 'were left' on the head chair of the dining table, and her brassier 'was on' the doorhandle to the Main Hall. When he entered the Main Hall and saw her panties on the column of the bannister, however, he grew suddenly fed up with the whole affair.

"Come on," he shouted to the empty house, "Come on and stop this foolishness. I don't feel like it." He proceeded to yawn widely, and he felt like just going to sleep on the plush carpet of the staircase, but then it occured to him that _The real Lily was not this sexy. The real Lily was not this horny. The real Lily would not leave me a treasure hunt as she discarded her clothes around the house. She was not like this. What am I doing, disgracing her memory like this?_

At this thought, he began to cry. Not loud obnoxious sobs, but simple destitute tears.

He was miserable.

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	19. On Achilles and Medusa

_I'm not just kidding when I say that I'm not J.K._

Thanks so much for reading, and do review! I love receiving reviews from y'all.

Here's a nice surprise--two chapters in one weekend! Hope you enjoy!

So as I told WAYAMY27NARF: Yeah . . . uh . . . (ahem) this is rather a crazy story. It's supposed to be fun to write, not of epic or of really serious proportions. Unfortunately, I suppose in exchange for creativity I sacrifice sanity. It's going to be forever for me to tie this story up--I keep going on new plot tangents and never concluding them. And I'm also aware that this story is pretty immature in some ways--reading really good fanfiction makes this look really inferior--so I apologize for that.

**Chapter 19**

Of course, Snape rankled the fates in such a way that at that exact moment in time, when he looked and felt his worst, the doorbell rang for the first time in weeks.

Perhaps it was for the best, though, because the instant his fragile pride was on the guillotine, he sprang to action, racing up the stairs to don a dressing gown and throw some water on his face. An instant later he was unchaining the door and shivering as the blast of humid air wafted into his face, scented with roses and rain and wet dog. For, as it turned out, his unexpected visitor was none other than his agent Becky, in muddy trainers, soggy tight sweatpants, and with a large golden retriever. This latter pawed at Severus eagerly, sharing the sunny disposition of his owner.

She was so . . . real. It was strange to see a living and breathing female so close to him after such an epiphany as he had experienced concerning his 'Lily'. _Lily isn't real. This is real. Do you really want something like this woman?_

His perplexities were broken when the woman spoke. "Hi!" greeted Becky with an enormous smile and even more enormous burst of friendliness.

_Maybe not someone so, SO real. Miss Hawthorne is intimidating at best._

She looked both exhausted and exhilarated, her blond hair soaked and flying away from her high ponytail and the ends curling like Medusa's hair.

Since she said nothing else and clearly desired a response, the previously comatose Snape did his best to look as though he had been extremely busy and was irritated at her interruption. "Hello," he said with strained cordiality.

Thus spoke the muddy gorgon, "Well, I was just going to go on a jog and I thought it'd be nice to come past the house here, just for a destination. I've been working on my mileage and it's a full five and a half miles here. On the way, I got caught in the storm. No biggie, but a bit gross to run in the rain, don't ya think? Do you mind if me and Buster come in for a bit to dry off?"

Snape shook his head. "No, I do not." There was certainly no reason to deny her entrance--it was really her house, though not entirely, and it was not as though he really was doing anything important.

She frowned. "I hope it's not too inconvenient. Are you busy?"

"Not particularly."

Prolonging further conversation, he drew the door wider and intimated that she might enter. She did so, but then sheepishly remembered that she had a dirty dog with her. "Mr. Snopes, could I ask you to get a towel for Buster?" she asked. Snape made a motion to go, but then she thought better. "Actually, if you haven't relocated stuff, I know where to find one."

"Nothing has changed," Snape said, and Becky commanded Buster to sit and stay, slipped her trainers and wet socks off and ran up the stairs.

This left Buster sitting outside on the front porch, thumping his tail, and looking at Snape while licking his lips.

Snape was thoroughly disgusted.

When Snape did not move, Buster nonchalantly raised his leg and began to lick his privates clean.

Snape was even more disgusted, but by then Becky was back with two large clean towels. "Thanks very much Mr. Snopes," Becky thanked him, though Snape for the moment was not quite sure what. He retreated to the study so that he might sit down and pretend that he was engrossed in a book, to expedite their exit.

The thickest one he found was, to his disgust, the Bible, and so he began reading on a random page in Leviticus. It was deadly dull.

"So, watcha reading?" Becky asked, drying out her hair. Buster preceded her into the room and immediately jumped on the couch. She paid no attention to the dog, instead walking up to Snape and reading over his shoulder.

"The Bible?" she asked, and he nodded. "Were you a vicar or something?"

Snape almost laughed--she was so far from the truth. Though, granted, his tendency to wear high-collared black jumpers and plain, puritan clothing might create the illusion that he did so out of religiosity, but he just liked black.

"No," he said quietly. "I was a professor at a school."

"Ah, right, you told me that!" Becky recalled, sitting down on top of the desk, still massaging her hair.

He sensed that she was looking at him with intent curiosity, but he pretended to pay no mind, leaning until the book was almost at his nose. He was a bit near-sighted, likely a result of reading a lot over his lifetime.

"Hey, no offence, but you look pretty sick. Compared to the last time I saw you. Not that it's any of my business, but are you taking care of yourself?"

He nodded absently.

She said nothing for a few minutes, still staring, he thought. Then she asked, "Could I get a plate of water for Buster? He's panting like the devil's on his tail."

"You know where to find it," Snape replied, not looking at her. He heard her bare feet pad through the door into the kitchen hall, and he heard the kitchen door squeak a second later. He heard the split-second click of the water turning on, and the quiet rumble of the pipes as the water rushed through them. Some minutes later, Becky came back, a glass of water in her hand and a pie-tin full of water for the dog. She appeared very worried.

"Hey, I don't want you to take this in the wrong way, but would you like to come to dinner with me?" she asked, unashamed. At this, Snape finally stopped rereading the same sentence over and over to look at her.

"What for?"

He was profoundly confused. _Is she asking me out? _

"Well," she said, biting her lip, "My husband's going to be out tonight, and I was going out with my son Thomas to this little local place we patronize, and I was thinking, since you're new around here, you might like some kind of introduction to town."

Her eyes darted a little to the right, which Snape took as an indication that she was not telling the complete truth. However, at the mention of her son and husband, it became clear that she was not 'asking him out' per se. _I wonder what she wants with me? _he thought hazily. _Well, why not. I haven't eaten much lately and it would probably do me some good to get out and go someplace, even though the rain shows no chance of letting up. _

So, he met Becky's anxious eyes, and nodded. "Just as long as that beast doesn't come along," he said, indicating the dog who had resumed licking himself on the couch.

She smiled. "Excellent. We'll pick you up at five. We eat early," she continued to explain, "Since with Thomas--he's just a year old--well, he tends to make a ruckus wherever we go, so I figure when we eat out, we ought to eat out when there's less people to mind if he squalls."

"Five."

And so the time was set. Becky did not make any further excuse, but left quickly, leaving Snape to wonder what in the world she wanted to get out of him.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

Odin sighed as Hermione forced a hot latte into his hand and sipped her own tea pensively. Food was his weakness, she had discovered in her kitchen work, so a plate of fancies and digestives sat before him as well. They were in a little cafe not far from Moriaty's which Hermione had found to be a charmng respite for her lunch hour.

However, his Achilles' heel was lying, so she was prying him with vittles in order to get some facts straight.

"So," his interrogator began, cold calculation in her generally-warm eyes, "Tell me everything. I want to know all about it."

The young man shifted, and swallowed the part-masticated biscuit in his mouth. He liked to be on the spot, but only when assured that praise would result--he hated going on stage when he felt he would receive a negative review from his audience. Trying his best to be nonchalant, he appraised, "Well, frankly my dear, I don't quite understand why you should give a damn."

"Gone With The Wind by Margaret Mitchell," Hermione said before she could stop herself.

Her fallen hero shrugged. "I'm being completely serious, Hermione, and I would appreciate if you would be serious as well."

"Okay." She looked down at her cup, swirling it, strangely mortified.

"So." A slight smirk rose to his face. "Why do you give a damn?"

She bit her lip. _Be straightforward_ she told herself. _The worst that can happen is rejection. _"Because I like you. A lot." She registered no change of expression in Odin's face. He evidentially was unsurprised. She took this receptiveness as a cue to continue. "I want to be your friend--if not more. Now don't get me wrong, I'm not head over heels for you," she confessed, "I believe that has already happened, but over someone else."

"Your Mr. Snape," Odin replied crisply, without a ruffle.

She nodded in unhappy confirmation. "But," she continued, "I feel a very strong and genuine . . . attraction towards you. You fascinate me. You're smart, you're handsome, you're intelligent, you know how to be refined when the case calls for it, you're fun and relaxing to be around, and you know how to treat women like women. But you're rather an asshole as far as your mouth goes."

This struck a chord, and his eyes drooped towards his coffee--it was his turn to be humiliated.

"You show no concern as to whether you tell me the truth about what has gone on in your life, or not! And I know at this point it's really none of my business, as we really are not too deeply acquainted, but I've gotten the impression that you like me as well."

She waited for a reaction, and she got it. His head rose again, and he nodded soberly at her, recognizing the validity of her point. "I do."

"So why the bloody fuck are you lying to me?" Her brows knit, but then her face softened. "I'd like for us to be an item, of a sort. I'd be willing to overlook a lot of things--our lifestyles, our ages, our backgrounds. But that can't happen if we don't have trust in each other. I don't expect it absolutely where it's none of my business, but as a party interested in a possible future with you, your background is something important to me. You understand?"

Odin nodded. "I understand, Hermione. And although I am justified in pointing out that what I told you about my history was before you exacted the promise of honesty from me, it is true that I was a right bastard not to correct the errors. I, too, would like for us to become an 'item'--I have known of you for years, and have known you for a month or so now, and although I do not think I am 'head over heels' for you either, I think we would be a good match for each other. I understand," he said softly, unwrapping his hand from his latte cup and stretching it across the table to meet hers, "that it is necessary for our future relationship, however, to have all of my history straightened out and above the board. Which, I rationally see no reason now why to hide my history," he explained, frowning, "Especially because the people that necessitated my quiet no longer have any power over me. Voldemort--curse him!--is gone, as is my mother, and so neither of them will be able to wreak retribution upon me for talking about myself."

Hermione hesitatingly took his hand. She was not sure how much of what she was going to receive would be lies and how much was going to be truth, but she could always do research later--especially since now she had the knowledge of his family and the family lawyer.

He seemed to sense her train of thought, for he added thoughtfully, "Everything I say save my relations with the Death Eaters can be backed up by statements in the office of Forbes, and if you are not eager to believe some little detail or so of my story, I shall refer you to him, no questions asked. You would be right to suspect me of giving you another spin--but you will be wrong to believe it. And so with this disclaimer, may I begin?"

Hermione nodded. "By all means," she replied, a small smile emerging despite itself. His hand was warm, surprisingly feminine in feel, smooth to the touch but with fading callouses that evidenced hard work in his recent past.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

Becky was considerably cleaned up when she came to pick up Snape in her shiny silver car. Her hair still was snake-like, however, since it seemed hastily blown-dry and rather matted, though he recognized that it probably had taken some time to do. Her little boy Thomas sat in the back seat and cooed when Snape got in beside him.

"Don't you want to sit in the front?" Becky asked 'Mr. Snopes', but the latter shook his head. He had cleaned himself up after Becky came to call, washing his hair and body and taking a nice long herbal bath. He felt considerably better after putting on some fresh clothes and turning off the phonograph, too.

"I like to be chauffered," he solemnly replied, his excuse for the fact that cars scared him stiff.

"Okay," Becky said, and they were off.

The ride was very short, though Snape spent most of it with his eyes closed and his hands wrapped tightly together. When he felt the car finally stop, he hurriedly got himself out of it to hide the fact that he was shaking. Becky got her kid Thomas out, and they walked across the street to the restaurant.

It was to his horror that the place was called The Dancing Goats. It was apparently Greek.

"Do you have Greek food where you're from?" Becky asked as a frumpy young woman seated them at a booth.

"They have everything in London," replied Snape stoically, "But that does not mean I have tried it, no."

"Hi, um, my name is Tula, and I'm your server today," the frumpy young woman addressed them, handing them two large menus.

"Great, thanks so much!" Becky exclaimed. "Now, uh, could you show me where the restrooms are?"

"They're right over there," Tula gestured, and Snape saw a hallway clearly marked with the American blue restroom sign.

"Could you show me to them, please?" begged Becky.

"Okay," Tula agreed, and began to walk in their direction.

Becky kissed Thomas on the head, saying "I'll be right back dearheart," and she followed Tula.

Snape watched them over the top of his menu, and saw that Becky really did not go to the restroom at all, rather entering a prolonged and detailed discussion that Snape suspected, by their preliminary glance to make sure he wasn't paying attention to them, was about him.

_What kind of trap have I walked into? _he thought.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

"My mother," Odin began, "Was, as the letter you read said, Mrs. Augusta Bernice Longbottom, formerly of the Hillindale family. The Hillindale family was filthy, filthy rich. They had so much bloody money they didn't know what to do with it all. So of course her only daughter had a plethora of suitors--young and old, wizards of all status, prominent Ministry of Magic men and those who needed political sway. However, because she was filthy, filthy rich, most people found her to be very spoiled. In reality, I believe she was pragmatic. She had everything she ever wanted--any luxury she wanted was hers for the taking, any gown, any parfum, any hat--and a large amount of independence. Why should she trade her independence for his security?"

Hermione nodded in sympathy.

"So people, as a result, came to refer to her as a 'hard woman'. She denied any suitor who came around, finding fault with each and every one of them. Which, granted, there were ones that were better left alone, who wanted her only for prestige, but she made no distinctions. Sooner or later, the men all gave up on her--all except one. A poor little squib with barely any money, the disinherited non-existant black sheep of the prestigous Longbottom family. This was my father, Martin Longbottom, whom you know more familiarly as Marty Temple."

"Oh." She sighed. "I ought to have caught that one. Martin--Marty."

Odin smiled. "He wasn't ever really the creative type. Well, Miss Augusta Hillindale was the favorite of her father, Charles, who at one point was the Minister of Magic, and he was getting on in age. He had a sudden stroke, and insisted that his daughter get married to someone of good family that would be able to protect her when he was gone, someone who dearly loved her as he loved her. However, he insisted, that his daughter would marry no Muggle. Well, my mother was beside herself, because she was in love with some French Muggle count who had come to England for the hunting season that year and never left, just to hang around Augusta. He didn't know she was magic, or else he probably would have called it off. Charles Hillindale predicted this, and therefore forebade his daugher get married to the Count. Augusta had no one else to choose from, since she had scorned all her other suitors away, and they had moved on with their lives, and so she married my Squib father, Martin Longbottom."

Hermione gasped. "Oh dear, so she didn't love him at all?"

"Not one farthing of her love went to him. Indeed, the night after their nuptials, when my father came to join her in bed, she told him that she was already two months pregnant and that he had the choice between the floor or the street. He chose the floor, naturally. Seven months later, we had Frank."

Hermione was astonished. "That is horrible!"

Odin shrugged. "What else could she do? At least her father died before the baby was born--Frank really looked nothing like my dad at all; he had an extraordinary resemblance to the Count. Charles Hillindale would have seen it, for he was quite shrewd, and it would have destroyed whatever life he had left in him to know that his daughter had been unfaithful to her promise to him."

He sighed. "All in all, my father lived through a peaceful if sexless life with her for the next eleven years. My mother was very frugal, never spending the least bit more than she had to, saving all her money for who knows what. Frank's future was to be well funded, I guess. Maybe she had future designs upon the Count, I don't know. In any case Frank was just barely a wizard, rather like his son Neville, but he was still the apple of my mother's eye. Everything was to be done for Frank. Frank was everything. It made my father quite jealous, but he never did anything about it. He was too much a gentleman to call her out on it, and too much in love with her to risk her admonishment. For, you see, he loved her quite a lot. He never did much for her but protect her from the scandal of her unscrupulousness--which was really a big thing, especially back then. All he would have had to have done was find the Count and show Frank's resemblance to him to prove the boy was not a Longbottom, but he did not want to cause my mother pain."

"What a terrible position," Hermione said sadly, wondering if she could ever be as heartless as Augusta.

"Undoubtedly. But, my father was a fool to not do anything," Odin went on. "In any case, the day Frank went off to Hogwarts, the three of them went to the platform all together. There my father saw the joy and love in my mother's eyes for Frank and then he made a resolution. He was going to sire a child with my mother, and then maybe it would all be all right. Maybe then she would share the love and joy she imparted to Frank with him, and to their mutual son. It would bring them together."

"But your mother wouldn't do that of her own violition, would she?" Hermione asked carefully.

"Just listen. So my father got himself some love potion--I don't know what kind--and put it in her water or something that evening. And the result was that they . . . well, they procreated, with me as the result."

"I'm guessing your mother was furious."

"Right as ever, Hermione. They went to sleep together, and in the morning Augusta literally threw him out of the bed, forbade him to ever enter her house again, and insisted that if she turned out pregnant, she would hunt him down and murder him. He did not hesitate to leave."

"Oh my goodness."

"So he went out on the street to the pub, got himself a few drinks, then staggered home again, only to meet a stern-faced Auror with a warrant for his arrest. My mother had filed a report of rape."

"Gracious! What an evil woman!"

"I always thought so. Of course she was not at all thrilled to deliver me, or have me around. She made me out to be a burden, a nuisance. I was clearly not wanted. And when I proved myself to be a squib--well, there you go."

Odin's eyes were a little glassy, and he hastily removed his hand from Hermione's to dab at his eyes with a handkerchief from his sleeve.

"Odin, I'm so sorry," Hermione said quietly, trying to understand what it would feel like to not be wanted. She did not succeed.

He sighed. "Well, life's life and all that rot. I spent the first half of my life trying to prove her that I wasn't a complete ne'er do good. I was a whole hell of a lot smarter than Frank, I studied hard, I was deeply religious, I read anything I could and worked hard trying to please her. Nothing worked. She did not appreciate a thing I did. She especially did not appreciate that I stole from her on a frequent basis, whether it be cookies that she baked for her precious little Frank or money to pay bus fare to the library. When I realized that I would never be good enough for her, I ran away. I left her and went to the streets."

He put his face in his hands. "And then from there it was just downhill. I got a job at a local pub at age fifteen, where they traded me a little closet and a little pay in exchange for cleaning up the puke in the bathroom and the spilled drinks on the bar. It wasn't much, but it was something. Of course, being around that kind of crap made me want to participate myself, so I found myself drinking my dinners rather than finding anything decent. From there, it was just a short step to being taken in by Death Eaters who had need for me. I, being stupid, believed their guarantees that my life would be spared if I helped them in their ends, even though their end was to eradicate all those squibs like me from the Wizarding World."

Hermione found herself realizing that she was repeating history--falling for yet another recantful Death Eater with a terrible life. _Wait. But Snape isn't--wasn't--anything like Odin. Why am I busy comparing the two? Snape was an egocentric bastard who is head over heels for a dead woman. Odin hasn't found his soul mate yet. Who's to say that I'm not Odin's, and Odin's not mine? Snape obviously didn't give a damn about me, so why should I care? _She was arguing with herself again, so she quickly chastised herself and turned her attention back to her companion.

Odin breathed slowly, then drew his face from his hands again. He dabbed his eyes some more, then took Hermione's hand as she offered it to him. "Oh God. I'm sorry. I hate that I'm crying over the past. I vowed to stop that a long time ago. Anyhow," he went on, "At least I was lucky. I kept on being stupid, working for them, running little errands and going back and forth to and from the Continent as a kind of messanger. In normal circumstances, I would have been killed once I outlived my usefulness. I guess, though, that I just didn't." A sad smile emerged upon his face. "I learned many languages, you see. As of now, I am fluent in over twenty European languages and can transfer easily between major dialects. The Death Eaters, as I generally perceived, were either stupid or brilliant. The stupid ones were too stupid to learn so much, and the brilliant ones were too busy controlling the stupid ones, so I made myself even more useful to them. I delivered messages, interpreted speeches, and dictated translations. I hated every minute, but once I was embroiled, I had to stay there. I knew too much for them to just let me go. So I worked hard, I got to travel out of the deal, and I learned a lot. Plus, I found my father--by accident, but he was in a bar that I was waiting for some Russian I was supposed to meet. I was drunk, and he was even drunker, and somehow we spat out enough of our life stories to realize that he was my father and that I was his son. He told me where he could find him--which was here at Moriaty's; after being turned out on his ear he went to the first place that accepted him and stayed there--and he left while I pursued my busines with the man I had to meet. Since, Marty and I have gotten on quite well, though it is clear that he still loves my mother, despite what she did to him." Odin smiled. "We're chums of a sort, now. I care for him a lot. He got a ton of shit in his life, and now all he wants is to live and die in peace."

Odin proceeded to exhale, take a swig of his coffee, and shake his head. "But Hermione, you can understand better now how I developed my . . . chronic lying disorder? My mother lied to my father, I lied and stole from my mother, so then I went and turned around and lied to the world when I became a Death Eater--I had to to survive--and to you and pretty much everyone else important in my life in order to just keep me alive and keep Marty's secret. I don't do it because I'm an inherently bad person, it's just because I've been sort-of a liar all my life, for one reason or another. That gives me no excuse to keep on doing it, and I want to change, but after so many years--"

Hermione stood, walked around to him, and hugged Odin desperately. "--Oh Odin," she interrupted sadly, "I forgive you."

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

Tula brought forth from the kitchens a huge amount of food. Snape could not believe it at all--they had not ordered nearly so much, he thought. But plate after plate went on the table, and Tula was becoming quite red in the face from the steaming plates.

"Will this be all?" she asked Becky, tapping a plate of spinich, and looked at the woman conspiratorially.

Becky just smiled and nodded.

_I think they are going to poison me. _Snape looked at the spinich that Tula had so innocently tapped, and made a mental note to avoid it.

Becky grabbed a little of most everything to put in front of Thomas, who squealed eagerly and began squishing a handfull of humuus in his tiny fist. Snape noticed that she did not give him spinich. Then Becky proceeded to surprise him by dumping about half the platter of spinich upon her own plate, and then she looked at Snape, who had not touched a thing.

"Come on, dig in!" she exclaimed heartily, "Or do I have to feed you?"

At this, she began to shovel spoonfulls of Greek food on his plate.

Piles of pita bread, mediterranean salad, souvlaki, pikilia, mousaka, and stifado settled on his plate, and went down his gullet as Becky made sure that his plate was consistently full. Finally, he felt that he could not eat any more, and was about to insist that she stop.

He pushed his plate away, but it suddenly moved back. _That was strange. Is that the Uzo or did I really see that?_

He did so again, and once more the plate was pushed back towards him, the fork leaping up and sticking itself in a bit of potato.

_There must be some magic at hand. _Snape looked suspiciously around for any sign of a wand being pointed at him. _I don't see any, but it's possible that there could be wandless magic . . ._

"Thomas!" shrieked Becky, but then subsided into giggling. The baby had one of his kids-meal french fries up his nose, and he was laughing heartily at the spectacle he presented.

"Do you think we could leave, now?" Snape asked morosely, feeling like he was going to vomit due to too much Uzo, too much food, and too much anxiety. He hated the fact that his plate was acting strange.

"Oh, you want to leave? Oh, okay," Becky said. She tossed him her car key. "You can get in, but just stay there. I'll settle with the bill and such."

Too tired and too stressed to protest, Snape meandered casually out, trying to see which one of the people in the restaurant was spying on him.

_Well, it wasn't Becky. But what about that Tula girl? What were they talking about before dinner?_

Becky came out with Thomas quickly, with two big styrafoam boxes, and she drove Snape home. Snape thanked her cordially for the evening, then went upstairs and zonked out on the bed without even taking off his boots.

Snape did not know by the next morning how the boxes of leftovers had gotten into his refrigerator, but he made good use of their contents nonetheless.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

And yes, my favorite movie this year is My Big Fat Greek Wedding, so there were oblique references to that in the Greek Food scene. (Frump-girl makes her appearance! Haha! Poor Tula, I love her though. She reminds me of my 9th grade science teacher.)

By the way, if any of you pray, pray for my friend Melanie--she's a lovely girl, think Melanie Wilkes from Gone With The Wind in kindliness, but she's in the hospital with possible brain cancer. She just barely turned 18.

And on a much less important note, come on. Review. It's what you do.


	20. On Money and Soap

_I'm not just kidding when I say that I'm not J.K._

_I do seem to be failing brilliantly at this 'updating regularly' business. Do forgive me. I am bound and determined to finish this story, no matter how awful I think it is. There's too many that I never could finish, and I'd like to not count this among their number. Besides, it has its good moments. _

_Well, hang on, there's going to be maybe five to ten more chapters maximum. Enjoy!  
_

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

**Chapter 20**

"It's strange to be dining somewhere so nice on my own tab," Odin whispered in Hermione's ear, smirking, and she smiled faintly.

The gesture was not lost on Lawrence Muffler, Fred Jamison, and Bunter Forbes, the Longbottom lawyers, who looked at each other conspiratorially as they seated themselves at the table in the private room of _Le Vie Violet, _the finest restaurant in the town of the deceased Augusta Bernice. Disapproval shone in their eyes, doubtless bred by distrust of their companion _and _his girl, who was clearly not a pure-blood. Odin, in his haughtiest cavalier manner, flouted them by sweeping Hermione's chair back in the approved fashion, gracefully sliding it forward once she was seated, and then landing himself with the utmost delicacy in the chair at the head of the table. She took the gesture as being beyond necessary, as a dramatic signal to the lawyers as they observed him. 'Hey, I may be a black sheep, and a squib, but I know manners worthy of my heritage!'

_Such refinement and elegance is the pureblood way, _Hermione thought, though it seemed very strange to associate Odin in the same class as the Malfoys. However, Odin had grown up (however abused) in a wealthy pureblood home, and, while his usual manners were far from un-chivalrous, he seemed to be accentuating his poise and dignity for the benefit of the lawyers.

And then, Neville came into the restaurant.

This was the first time since the funeral that Hermione had seen Neville, and she had not spoken much to him then save the usual condolences. It became obvious to her now that, besides Odin, he was fairly alone in the world, and he was well aware of the fact. His eyes looked hollow, as though he had not slept, and his face showed signs of stubble.

_No wonder. His grandmother's dead not even two months after the Battle of Hogwarts. And he had just gotten so much more confident, too! _It upset her most to see his most scared, intimidated look, akin to that with which he usually regarded Severus Snape. Only, it was directed at her, at Odin, and the lawyers. It gave her a creepy feeling, besides the violent pang of her heart when she thought of Snape.

_Don't think about him. You've got Odin, now._

Neville and Odin's interaction had not been unpleasant at the funeral, but it had not been pleasant, either. Neville had not seen Odin in many, many years, and to be re-introduced to his own uncle by his school-mate who was _dating _him, all at his grandmother's funeral, made the boy look a little ill. Looking at them together, it was obvious they were relations--their ears were very similar, as were their eyes--but otherwise they did not seem to reflect each other very much. She did not see a hitherto-unnoticed intellectual streak in Neville, nor did he act more charming than awkward.

Currently, the Gryffindor famed for cutting off Nagini's head still did not seem nearly himself. When he noticed Hermione, he waved, but otherwise he sat motionlessly.

"Mr. _Longbottom_", began Muffler, the pompous one, once their dinners had been ordered.

Both men looked up immediately; Neville had been contemplating his grubby fingernails and Odin had been telling Hermione what he knew about the arrangement of cutlery.

"I suppose," mumbled Forbes quietly, the most sensible one of the three, "That we shall address you by Mr. Odin and Mr. Neville accordingly in these situations."

"I hope you realize," added Jamison, the slightly malicious one, "That it will hardly be necessary, considering by the adopted name of the former. Mr. _Temple_ and Mr. _Longbottom_ are two disparate entities."

Odin waved away the comment. "Temple was a pseudonym donned for a particular place and a particular time. I have not legally changed my name."

Hermione still sensed that he was nervous about that point, though. Malfoy-esque graces or no, Odin was a far cry from the cool, manipulative hand of Lucius.

They had dropped the careless reference to 'Mr. Temple' earlier that evening as they came to the restaurant, and Odin had, as he confided in her, no idea how they had found out about his assumed name, considering how they addressed the letter to him as 'Odin Longbottom', but there was a lot of fishiness about the whole situation. Ever since he introduced himself to them, before the funeral, he felt that they regarded him in callous suspicion. Since he had no desire whatsoever for the money, he was going to endeavor to wiggle his way out of accepting it.

At that, Jamison snorted in disbelief, Muffler squinted superciliously into Odin's eyes, and Forbes smiled weakly at everyone. They were almost like a rehearsed comedy troupe.

Odin tried to not take offense. "Gentlemen," he said sweetly, "I do not understand the importance of this triviality. Please, if you have no objection, is there an issue you wish to take up with me?"

Muffler stood, frowning in distaste at the speaker. "To be quite certain, Mr. Odin, there is. An issue of another will."

Hermione felt eyes on the back of her head, and turned to look at Neville, who was staring at her with odd consternation. He whipped his head around to look at Muffler as soon as they made eye contact.

"Another will?" Odin said with a smile. "One in which I get closer to nothing, I imagine."

"Far from it, Mr. Odin," began Forbes, and all three of the lawyers said in conjunction, "You get everything."

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

He was certain that Becky was not in love with him. Severus had spent hours trying to figure out why he had taken her to dinner, besides this fact, and could come up with no answer.

She had a husband, did she not? Then what was she doing, tempting fate by taking another man to dinner?

Maybe her husband was dead, and she was loathe to admit it? Or maybe there was bad blood between them, and taking Severus out to dinner was something to spite him? Either way, he disliked the idea intensely, and next time he would categorically refuse. He had enough to attend to, without worrying about a woman who was trespassing her professional capacity as a Realtor.

The biggest issue on his mind was that Lily had left him after that night.

He had not noticed until he got into bed and...desired her presence, for lack of a better explanation, and she had not appeared, smiling, scowling or otherwise. It was very disconcerting. He felt a little as though he had left her in England, for some strange reason. But that was silly, he told himself, ignoring the fact that his little fantasy was _sillier. _

Huckleberry House, as a result, was a little more dim, but sounded a whole lot prettier, because he had foregone the use of the phonograph in favor of the grand piano in the music room. It was the only way to keep him from going mad.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

Odin was plainly shocked. He already knew that the house and a quarter of the fortune was going to him, but the entire fortune?

"What does my nephew get?" he asked quietly, looking as sheepish as if he had stolen the money from Neville.

Muffler rubbed the side of his nose. "A mere pittance."

"What percent?"

"No more than five percent of your total income, Mr. Odin."

Odin's face convulsed in disgust. "But I don't want _any _of it!" he exclaimed in shock. "Give it all to Neville. I don't want it. Christ!" He closed his eye, and carefully resumed his composure. "Did she give any reason for doing as she did?"

"As she wrote, in the will she made out to you _the week before she died, _you ought to get it for various reasons, the most flattering of which is her wish to reconcile her memory, because she is sorry for the way she treated you in your youth, and the least flattering of which is that she does not trust her older son's son to spend it wisely. She considers him," he paused, as though to listen to her ghost and repeat the same words, "'too tender-hearted to be trusted with it'."

The sound of a chair being thrust back startled all of them.

"Too tender-hearted?" exclaimed Neville, angry. Hermione watched him, observing that she had never seen him so hurt in all his life. "And she said that a _week _ago?"

"Sit down, Mr. Neville. However," Jamison said, looking pointedly at Odin, "The will was not sent to us, but verified by a London solicitor that Madame Augusta was _not _in the habit of calling upon, and deposited in her safe-deposit box at Gringotts. We only accessed it three days after her death."

"It is not a forgery?" Neville exclaimed, looking at Jamison.

Jamison shook his head. "It was signed in her handwriting, and sealed with her own wand. But!" he postulated angrily, not taking his eyes off of Odin, "We at Muffler, Jamison, and Forbes have reason to believe its unreliability!"

Odin shook his head. "I don't care," he drawled, "The money is none of my concern. I say let the former will stand, in which Neville gets most everything. That's how I prefer it, and that is how I'm sure she would prefer it."

"That is not why we brought up the issue, Mr. Odin," Muffler said, in dangerous tones.

"May I reiterate," Odin said, standing, "I want nothing to do with this. I am comfortable--"

However, he was interrupted by the swinging-open of the door.

"Oh, _pardon _me intrusion," said an oldish wizard in a florid Continental accent, "I thought that zis was the room where _Mssrs. Longbottom _were 'aving their dine-er."

All eyes were upon him.

"I am Count Francis Leonarde Michelange Renault, at your service," he said, bowing. He had an enormous Poirot-ean moustache, and it dipped when he did. "I was," he said, putting his hat to his breast, "A dear friend of the late Madame Augusta."

The lawyers evidentially knew just as much about Count Renault as Odin did, and all three shifted uncomfortably under the gaze of the tall and imposing, if aged, foreigner.

The Count's eyes seemed to sparkle with dismal charm.

Hermione looked at him, then looked back at Neville. They looked much more alike than Neville and Odin, though Neville was more inclined to roundness and had no facial hair, nor was he so tall as the dark foreigner.

She wondered if he knew that this was his grandpa. He did not seem any more surprised than she would estimate him to be in any other situation, so maybe Augusta had never told him.

Granted, if Odin had told the complete truth at all. She was _not _about to go barge into Neville's life and tell him that his father was technically a bastard, even though his uncle was the one treated like the bastard.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

Becky came calling, of course, not too much later. Only a week had passed before she was again on his doorstep. Rather, _her _doorstep that she was offering to him at a meager price.

Of course, it just _had _to be when he was brewing something that was really volatile. Covering it with a statis charm, and hiding the cauldron with a notice-me-not, he ran to the front door and opened it just a crack.

"Hello?"

"Hello, Mr. Snopes!"

"Mrs. Hawthorne. What brings you here?"

She grinned. "Just checking to see that you aren't keeping dead bodies in there, it's so dark. May I come in?"

He had no choice, so he let her in. "I'm particularly busy," he said.

"Oh?" She sniffed. "I think I smell it."

He sniffed too, and admitted to himself that the citrus-lemongrass smells of the _Tamenastic!_ shampoo potion he was mass-producing had permeated the house.

"What is it? It's not food, is it?"

She looked somewhat worried.

"Heavens, no. Soap."

"Oh." She smiled faintly. "It smells absolutely divine. Could I buy a bottle?"

Without a word, he went to one of the crates in the hallway, picked a bottle out, and gave it to her.

"Glass bottles, too? Wow, this must be special stuff. How much do I owe you?"

"Nothing, now would you kindly leave? I have some cauldrons that are going to boil over."

The sharp intake of breath that followed this statement was his, however, not hers.

She laughed. "Don't worry, I don't care if you're a warlock. Heaven knows, there's enough around here."

_Oh. She thinks I'm_... he cringed. _Wiccan._

"I'll see you later, Mr. Snopes," Becky said with a smile, "And thanks very much. This smells delicious. Mind you don't work too hard, and get some nourishment into you, all right?"

She paused.

"If you like, I'll stop by the store and bring you back some groceries?"

He puzzled over this, and then he realized why he had been taken out to dinner and sent home with leftovers. The look in her eyes was identical to that of Poppy Pomfrey when she told him to stay in bed and not go patrolling, because he had lost so much blood. Like Molly Weasley, admonishing her children to eat all that was on their plates.

She was mothering him. Apparently, she had got it into her noggin that he was not eating enough.

The riddle was solved, and he knew how to finally get her off of his back.

"I would actually find that incredibly helpful," he said, trying not to sound as sarcastic and bitter as he felt. "Here." He gave her an amount of money from his pocket. "That ought to be enough for something decent."

"Do you normally eat meat, Mr. Snopes?" asked Mrs. Hawthorne.

"Yes," he said, turning towards the kitchen.

"Hm," Becky said, "You're certainly very curious. Most witches and warlocks won't touch anything that isn't tofu."

"And _what _may I ask is _tofu_?"

She shrugged. "I guess you in England don't do things the same way."

And she left him in peace.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

_Review. It's what you do. _


	21. On Traps and Warlocks

_I'm not just kidding when I say that I'm not J.K._

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

**Chapter 21**

"So where's your son today?" Severus asked when Becky returned with a week's worth of groceries and had put them away. He felt awkward, because she lingered afterward, and her eyes were trained on the shampoo that he stirred.

She sighed, and looked out the window. "His dad's got a half-day off and I sent them to the park. It does look like rain, though, so I don't think they'll be there long."

"Oh." Snape stopped stirring for a brief second to glance outside at the clouds as well. The overgrown yard was looking rather perky at the prospect of a shower.

"Can't you get a gardener?" Becky asked suddenly. This was a new thought to Snape; he had never managed a garden worth having a gardener, so when he moved into Huckleberry House, the idea was one that did not come to mind.

"Never thought about it," he said shortly, and carefully blew a little on the surface of the potion to cool it. "But I suppose you've got a vested interest in it, so, if you insist, I shall look into it."

She did not reply at first, and Snape turned his attention to adding tablespoons of ice water to the potion. He was thoroughly distracted from the conversation when she suggested, "I could stop by of a Saturday morning and do a little work."

"If you insist," he grumpily conceded, not really paying attention to what she had asked. Little did he realize what he had agreed to until she had already left.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

Nothing exceptional had occurred after the arrival of the Count--whom, Hermione decided, was not a real count, because then he would be a _Comte--_save that Odin signed a waiver attesting that he joined Muffler, Jamison, and Forbes in contesting the second will. Jamison had hemmed and hawed over this, but it had been written and signed by the solicitors.

"I _had _to insist on that waiver," he told Hermione as they waited for a Portkey back to London, "Because I definitely feel that there's something rotten in Denmark. Why would my mother leave everything to _me? _No matter how tender-hearted Neville might be, she had no reason to suspect that I might use it any more wisely. No, there's most certainly something going on, and I'm rather afraid that someone's trying to set me up."

"Who, and for what purpose?" she immediately quizzed.

"I don't know, but it's not for _my _benefit," Odin said with a grimace. He laughed. "And to think, being a socialist might just save my hide. If I were anything but, I'd probably have scooped up the money and not thought twice."

Hermione did not like Odin's political views, but she did not argue. Most people would have been puzzled, but accepting of the course of action. After all, however estranged, Augusta _was _his mother; who was to say that she had not had a change of heart in her old age?

"But she didn't, and I'm fairly certain of that," Odin said stoutly. "Do you know, Hermione _ma cherie_, I'd like to know a little bit more about her death."

"I agree. Heart failure in her sleep is strangely unconvincing. She was scarcely seventy."

Odin nodded. "I've personally got my money on _Monsieur Le Pas-Vrai Comte_. The Count who only claims to be a Count."

"Don't you think that he's a bit too obvious of a suspect?" Hermione suggested. "Besides, what would be his motive?"

"I don't know. Not revenge, at any rate," Odin replied. "Who else should we add to the list?"

Hermione shook her head. "I hate to add Neville, but it's a possibility. Who knows how he felt about his grandmother? I know she was over-bearing."

"And me," Odin said. "I could be lying to everybody, yourself included." He looked sad at that. "Knowing my track record, actually, that's not as far-fetched as the others. I have multiple motives, opportunity, and capability. I really do think I was framed," he mused miserably, and Hermione put her arm around his shoulder.

"Let's go take a visit to that peculiar London lawyer, first of all," the witch suggested. "His name is E.B. Crawford."

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

With undue regularity, Becky started showing up with saws and shears at seven in the morning on Saturdays. Snape had not awoken, the first time she came, and was rudely scared out of his wits by the firing-up of her weed-whacker.

"What the blazes are you doing?" he had yelled at her angrily from the window, but Becky, adorned in dirty jeans, an over-sized _Disney World _t-shirt, and protective earmuffs, just smiled and waved in an obscenely oblivious manner. Seeing that he was not going to make her leave without going outside, Snape got dressed and went outside to tell her off.

He never got to do that, though, because there were piles of thorny rose-branches and weeds blocking his way. Besides that, he got distracted by a rare kind of violet, particularly potent with Vitamin E, that had been unearthed in the process of Becky's adventures.

In short, he just never bothered to tell Becky to go away, and so she never stopped coming.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

E.B. Crawford was an exceedingly old wizard, and had to squint at Hermione and Odin from behind three pairs of spectacles layered on top of each other.

"Mr. and Mrs. Brooks? Oh, how lovely to see you two again. Do come in and have a biscuit or two, would you? Now how is young Peter?"

"Mr. Crawford," Hermione interrupted gently, "This is Odin Longbottom, and my name is Hermione Granger. Perhaps you know of me?"

"Hermione Granger?" the old wizard repeated with a harumph, but then his eyes cast upon the previous day's copy of _The Daily Prophet _which sat neatly spread-out on his desk, and all of a sudden he broke into a huge grin. "Why, Hermione Granger, the famous young Muggle-born witch whose friend is Harry Potter! Do come in, my dear; it's an honor to meet you at last!"

Odin and Hermione exchanged a glance. If Augusta Bernice Longbottom's last will was a forgery, it was easy to see that the culprit chose the best solicitor for the job. E.B. Crawford was bonkers.

"Now who's the young fellow?" Crawford asked, clearly having forgotten Hermione's previous introduction. "It's not Harry Potter, is it?"

"No, sir. This is Odin Longbottom."

"Longbottom, Longbottom," the old man repeated, chewing the end of his beard. "Now where have I heard the name before?"

"Are you perhaps thinking of my mother, Augusta, sir?" Odin asked cautiously.

"Oh, no, no, no, I know now! You're the young man who killed that awful snake of You-Know-Who's. Nefertiti, was it?"

"Nagini, sir," Odin corrected, "and no. That was my nephew, Neville, who killed the snake."

"Oh, a pity, much a pity," E.B. said, "I should like to meet young Neville, if that's his name."

"Mr. Crawford, sir," Hermione prompted, "We have come here about a will you authorized last week, for the late Mrs. Augusta Longbottom."

"Oh, Augusta! Sweet Augusta!" the old man said softly, then apologized. "I'm sorry, I don't know any Augustas. Nor do I know any Longbottoms, personally, though I do know that there was a Longbottom who was instrumental in bringing down You-Know-Who. He killed a snake by the name of Nevilly."

_This is hopeless_, Hermione mouthed to Odin, who agreed with a curt nod.

"Sir, do you keep records of your transactions and such?" Hermione asked, trying to keep patience.

"Oh, yes, but my secretary Sally-Ann takes care of all my records. Oh, Sally-Ann!" He pressed a buzzer on his desk, and a neat-uniformed middle-aged witch entered.

She shook hands with Hermione and Odin immediately. "Dorothea Peterson," she said briskly. "He just calls me Sally-Ann because that was his first secretary's name, and he's forgotten mine."

"Mary, how could you think such horrible things?" the elderly wizard exclaimed, and he took off one pair of glasses to wipe them.

Dorothea sighed. "You wanted information concerning..."

"Augusta Longbottom," Hermione said quickly. "We are investigating the possibility that her will was forged. She made it last Tuesday, supposedly authorized by Mr. Crawford."

The secretary sighed again. "Anything's possible, with him," she said with a tired expression. "He's finally retiring next month. It means I'm out of a job, but frankly, I don't care. I'm more a nanny than a secretary anyhow."

"Sally-Ann, dear, I'm right here. How do you think it makes me feel to have to listen to you talk about...talk about whatever you were talking about." His comment started out sounding hurt, but ended blissfully serene.

Odin seemed to find this amusing, and chuckled lowly.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

"This is the best darn lemonade I've ever had," Becky said enthusiastically, and Snape looked at the ground in some embarrassment. He had stolen the recipe from the Granger household. Well, not literally _stolen _it, per se; he had just been craving the lemon squash that Hermione's mother made, and he had thought about it, and made it as best as he could remember. It seemed that, with his potions-master expertise, he remembered it perfectly.

"In England, 'lemonade' is a sort of carbonated lemon drink," Severus said, trying to sound supercilious, "This is quite different, as you see, and we call it 'lemon squash'."

"Oh. That's really interesting," Becky said, apparently not that interested. She wiped her forehead with the back of her glove.

They were sitting on the back service porch of Huckleberry House, Becky taking a break from gardening and Severus taking a breather from his cauldrons. It was Becky's fourth Saturday visit to tame the back garden, and Severus had decided that ignoring her labor was both uncharitable and callous, so he decided to gently show her appreciation by providing some refreshment.

"You know," Becky said in her careless way, taking another swig of the 'lemonade', "I heard you playing the piano last week."

Snape raised one eyebrow delicately. Besides potions-making, he had been practicing piano a lot, if only because he was lonely for 'Lily'. "And?" he asked quietly. He felt rather violated, but understood that it was probably more his fault for playing with the window open than hers for listening.

"God." She sighed. "It was amazing."

"Thank you." He still felt a little creeped out that she had heard him, when he was playing for such a private audience.

"You know," she added, "They're looking for a piano player down at the English pub on Nurse Street. I think you might like it, if only for something to do."

"Hm." He did not have a concrete answer; the idea was initially very unappealing, but he did not have the energy to contest her suggestion, which he knew was only meant kindly.

Becky uncrossed her legs and stretched her toes. "Do you know much about Salem?" she asked conversationally.

"I can't say that I do, no."

"It's a very English town," she began, "Known mostly because of the Salem Witch Trials in its early days. The days of the Puritans, before the U.S. formed. The 1600s. You probably have heard something about it."

"A bit." He paused. "I came here knowing that much."

"Oh. You ever read the Arthur Miller play?"

"No, I haven't."

Becky smiled toothily. "I'll lend you a copy. It's a quick read, and worth every minute. You know who Reverend Hale was, by any chance?"

He shook his head.

"Oh, he was the guy that they called in to investigate the witchcraft accusations. He saw it was all bogus. I'm related to him, actually," she said in a wistful manner. "Of course, a lot of people can say that, because he had a lot of kids, but based on my family history, I'm fairly direct. It's pretty neat."

Snape shrugged. He could trace the Prince history back to the days of William of Normandy, as could most wizards of prestigious family, so he little doubted her ability, as an American Muggle, to trace her heritage to the 1600s.

"What is most interesting, though," she added, with a hint of mystery, "Is that he supposedly wrote, in some of his journals, that he could prove it was all bogus for the simple fact that he was a _real _warlock."

Not knowing what she was getting at, Snape immediately went rigid with caution.

She burst out laughing. "I've always thought it was the most ironic thing, that a man who thought he was really magic was called in to investigate the Salem Witch Trials!" Becky was obviously very amused by the whole thing. Snape just frowned.

"I mean, it kinda makes sense; of course he could say with confidence that the people around him weren't affected by the devil, because he considered _himself _a wizard, and he knew they didn't know a thing about magic or anything!"

Snape remained impassive.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she suddenly said, and got very quiet. "I didn't think."

"Obviously not," Severus said with a haughty sniff, making her look even more properly abashed.

"Really, that was inexcusable," Becky said, very taken aback.

With a huff, Snape stood. "Mind you keep such frivolous criticisms to yourself in the future, Mrs. Hawthorne."

He left her on the service-porch stairs to finish off the lemon squash all by herself.

_If only she knew how ignorant she was... _he thought to himself as he began to bang around with his cauldrons.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

As Odin and Hermione discovered, to their unhappiness, either Augusta herself or an impersonator with her wand showed up at the office of E.B. Crawford on the Tuesday before the week of her death. When shown a photograph of the deceased, neither Dorothea Peterson nor E.B. Crawford could positively identify if the person who made an appointment and kept it was, in fact, Mrs. Longbottom. Odin left the office looking very glum.

"I'm in a very tight spot," he said unhappily. "And it seems that whomever has put this noose around my neck is drawing it very quickly."

He had already adopted the fatalistic, paranoid opinion that the whole scheme was a convoluted means of making him a scapegoat for someone else's crime, and therefore an intended victim.

"Cheer up," Hermione said, following him onto the bus, and she took his hand in an effort to comfort him.

Since they had officially decided to embark on an exclusive relationship, Hermione and Odin had shared many comfortable couch-snuggles and interesting conversations, but nothing more serious than that. The uncomfortable question had come up as to whether or not she was a virgin, and she regretted to tell him that she was.

He had, quite contrary to her imagination, been thrilled. It only heightened his opinion of her, actually, and he was sad to tell her that he could not truthfully tell her the same thing. Still, that meant that he refused to sleep with her, because, on his honor, he would not take her unless they got married.

This disappointed Hermione more than it did Odin, it seemed, since she really craved that kind of intimacy with him. However, she was painfully aware that, after almost a week, he had not even kissed her yet, so she realized that he was a slow-mover when it came to girls he fancied.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

_Review. It's what you do. _


	22. On Detective Work and Playing Piano

_I'm not just kidding when I say that I'm not J.K._

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

**Chapter 22**

There was a compost heap at the back of the Huckleberry House property, courtesy of Becky's hard garden work. Severus contributed to it by throwing eggshells and carrot tops and things into the debris. He noticed, however, one particular plant was nearly always absent from the piles: huckleberry. The only reason he noticed was because, while dumping an over-generous bowl of rancid radish salad into the pile of decaying flora, he came up with the idea of breeding a new variation of the dirigible plum. So, he started poking through Becky's recent clippings and saw, to his surprise, no huckleberry stems at all. This was peculiar because he clearly remembered that she had broken one of the front windows while clipping at them, the last time she was there.

He began to wonder how much Huckleberry clippings were worth.

On the brighter side, he had thought a lot about Becky's suggestion concerning the advertisement for a piano player at the English pub in Salem, and while he had initially hated the idea, he began to like it after a while. He had gone, and applied, and won the job, and currently attended the place on Mondays, Fridays, and Saturdays. Not only all that, but he enjoyed it, if only because it gave him a reason to practice more at home, and he got free drinks into the bargain. (Though this latter was a benefit in which he rarely over-indulged.)

However, he was loathe to let Becky know that he had actually any gratitude to owe her, so he bicycled back and forth from the House for every job. It was beneath him to ask for a ride.

As far as 'Lily' went...well, whenever he thought of _her_, he raced off to the piano to forget about her. If he thought of her while at the piano, he had a drink. (He soon found it convenient to keep a decanter of cognac on the piano while at home.) If he thought about her after three drinks, he went to bed (or went home early and went to bed, if he was in Salem) and let himself cry.

Of course she dominated his mind often. How could she not, when she was everything he had lived for, when she represented everything he might have had, when she was the only person he wanted to see in eternity?

He did think of killing himself once or twice, but it was only fleeting. Scraping Nagini's teeth did not come without repercussions, and Snape had no interest in coming as close to death as he had before, much less opening the door to it. After all, he had taken such pains to save himself--why would he defeat his own purpose? The very idea made him angry with himself; suicide was far from honorable, and, indeed, was selfish. Let death come to him not when he was ready, but when his use was expended.

It occurred to him that he probably did still have a purpose, and that (possibly) his purpose involved Becky. He had no idea why else fate would have attached her to him in the strange forms of Friendly Realtor, Weekend Gardener, Personal Grocery Shopper, and (he grudgingly supposed) Job Finder, and even (more grudgingly) Consumer of Products Manufactured.

It also occurred to him that it was strange that Becky knew about the job at the pub. It was not as though mothers of tots could just trapeze into the local bar on their way home from work, just for a casual pint. They had...motherly duties. Even Severus' own mother never drank in front of her son (that he could recall) before he turned three.

So, he had a lot of mysteries to occupy his mind in the stead of Lily.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

Odin and Hermione had been doing some significant investigating together over the next two days or so, and had come up with some facts:

-Augusta Longbottom was alive on July 21, 1998, when herself (or impostor with her wand) went to Mr. Crawford's and drafted/signed new will at one o'clock in the afternoon

-It is unlikely but not impossible that Mrs. Longbottom herself went to Mr. Crawford's; Neville was out in the greenhouses all day, having his lunch brought out to him by Baby, a house-elf. Neville said that Mrs. Longbottom would probably have told him if she left to go to London. (Our pet detectives inferred that if she wanted to do the deed discretely then it is understandable how she might use stealth.) None of the houselves noticed the use of a floo or their mistress' leaving, but there was a terrible leak in the pipes under the mansion and they were dealing with the water damage for over four hours, from a quarter to eleven to three fifteen. They did not bother with serving Mrs. Longbottom lunch, unless she were to call them specifically, since she liked to take a nap from twelve to two most days.

-Augusta Longbottom was home at four on July 21, in time for tea. No eye in the Longbottom home had seen her since ten in the morning, when she went out to examine Neville's work in the greenhouses. This meant that a) someone in the house was lying or b) she easily could have gone to London during that time.

-Augusta Longbottom did nothing unusual from that day until the day of her death, keeping up with her daily habits with stringent regularity, doing as she always had every day for fifty years.

-Augusta Longbottom died in her sleep on July 29, 1998, about (based on her doctor's assessment) one week and a day after making new will. She died in her sleep, and there was nothing to suggest that the death was anything but natural. Those who were present in the house on the night of her death: Neville Longbottom and the family of three houselves (named Mama, Papa, and Baby) who had been serving Augusta since she was a Hillindale.

-Augusta Longbottom had an inherited tendency to high blood pressure, which she got from her father, and she had to take pills for it since just before she was married in her late twenties. It was presumed that this was the silent killer, causing her to have a heart attack in her sleep. This is similar to what happened to Charles Hillindale, but he was older when he died and was suffering many other health conditions, including obesity, rheumatoid arthritis, and alcoholism.

Muffler, Jamison, and Forbes had one additional piece of evidence to put in the pile:

-After a discreet post-mortem on Mrs. Longbottom, the coroner discovered that there was no evidence of any poisons in her bloodstream or elsewhere in her body. She had, very certainly, died of a heart attack.

No one could argue with that, but, at the same time, no one was satisfied.

After much thinking about this problem, Odin had still a bee in his bonnet about the possibility of murder.

"There has to have been some sort of poison, something untraceable," he decided. "Or maybe a kind of killing curse? Not that I'd know much about _that _sort of thing."

"I'll look up on it," Hermione promised.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

Severus took a small sip of whiskey from the side-table at his piano and closed his eyes. Someone was smoking pot, probably out on the street, and it rankled his sensitive nostrils. He tried to focus on the less sweet but more pleasant scent of tobacco; someone was lighting a cigar not far from him. His fingers idly touched the keys in a few blues-y chords that fit his mood.

_I bought...a Dodge...down south in Memphis,_

he improvised to himself with a wry grin. Playing the blues never ceased to cheer him.

_That Dodge...yuh know...was called Elphias._

That wise-crack pun was enough to make him snort. Elphias Doge was just another one taken in by Albus' antics.

_I never knew...a man who knew me lesser_

"Bad grammar, purposefully inserted, makes it all the more typical..." he muttered aloud.

_'Cuz he thought 'e knew...a man who knew me better._

"Stupid!" he hissed. Usually these blues-y musical games did not end up autobiographical. The man puffing the cigar, a regular whose sight was not entirely unfamiliar to Severus, looked at him, an odd expression on his face.

Severus shuddered at the glance, and automatically began to play his favorite song of the month--'My Baby Grand', by Billy Joel.

"Late at night  
When it's dark and cold  
I reach out  
For someone to hold  
When I'm blue  
When I'm lonely  
She comes through  
She's the only one who can  
My baby grand  
Is all I need"

He did sing, not loud enough to attract a lot of attention, just enough that people across the room could hear his doleful tones and, if they listened closely, the words.

Throughout the first verse, he kept an eye on the man with the cigar, mostly because the latter was looking a tad too irritated to be comfortable.

_Move if you don't like it, dammit._

He was too distracted to start the second verse properly, and he stuttered and bit his tongue. He had to wait another few measures to re-start it. In the meantime, he still retained his focus on the cigar guy. The latter had knocked the ashes off the end of his old-fashioned stogie and, almost absentmindedly, doused the end in his drink. He clamped on the dry end and savored the flavor a moment before standing, taking his coat off the chair, and finishing off the last inch of his shot.

Snape, to better regard his subject, had dropped the tune and was back to simple chords, without his self-amusing annotations.

The man had clearly had one over the eight, as he shuffled to the bar and put his glass down in an insistent manner.

"That's enough for _you_, Mr. Hawthorne, unless I see some dough," the bartender said good-naturedly, and the guy with the cigar dug in his pockets until he came up with a wad of bills.

Severus blinked in shock. _This is Becky's husband? What a sodding bastard. He's in here almost every night. No wonder she's desperate for company. _His heart wrung with pity. _So this is probably how she found out about the piano job, too._

"Man oh man, you're loaded!" someone said, presumably to himself, but Hawthorne turned around, his eyes protruding madly.

"Whadda mean by _that_, wise guy?" he exclaimed loudly, trying to figure out (apparently) who the person was.

"Whoa, cool it, Grover," somebody else said.

"Keep your shirt on," the bartender added, sounding less playful.

When Hawthorne did not respond, two bigger guys stepped up to him on either side and grabbed his shoulders. Only at this did Hawthorne's shoulders sag.

"Keep your filthy hands off me," he sneered, shoving a pair of horn-rimmed glasses up his nose.

"Sorry, Grover, but we don't want a repeat of what happened last Fourth of July," the bartender reprimanded.

"Fine, Dave. Don't worry, I'm leaving." The two bouncers laxed their grasps, and Hawthorne straightened his shoulders. "I won't be coming back, I hope you realize," he sniffed in an arrogant fashion, and stalked out of the bar.

There was a hubbub as soon as he had left.

"...Man, you hear what happened that one Saturday?"

"-Yeah, I heard he and this wizard dude got in an epic fight. Talkin' Dungeons-and-Dragons Epic."

"-And there were fireworks going off and everything, it was like...scary."

"-I'm damn surprised they ever let him back in again."

"-Well, he and Dave used to be pretty tight, y'know?"

"-Yeah, way back in school..."

Snape felt immediately horrible for Becky. Of course, there was the slight possibility that this was not her husband...

"...whad his wife wazzername think of it?"

"-Aw, man, it's so sad. They got a kid!"

"-Whad! Him and Becky!"

"-Yeah, sweet l'il Becky, she sold us our new house last year. You always knew they was married."

"-Yeah, but I didn' think they'd have a kid!"

"-Real sad, really real sad, he shouldn'a got tied..."

...well, that seemed to erase the margin of error significantly. Snape blanched, realizing perhaps too soon what his mission was to do.

_I've got to help her out of this mess before the kid ends up like me_, he thought, seeing parallels between his past and the situation of little Thomas spring up like flies around carrion._ That's why I'm here in America._

Actually, with a grimace, he remembered _why _he was in America--he had been virtually chased out of Wizarding Britain by Hermione Granger, the little vixen--but now he saw why he _had _flown when he did.

He only realized that perhaps his thoughts were getting a bit too absurd when he wondered if, perhaps, once fate had cleared the issue of The Hawthorne Family off of his plate, he would find himself less resistant to Granger's floundering romantic advances. So, shaking the image of his gentle kiss on her cheek out of his memory, he went back to playing the piano.

It was only halfway through that he realized that he was playing _Life on Mars?_, to his great disgust.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

"Potassium chloride would do it," Hermione said thoughtfully, after flipping through numerous texts on poisons. "It seems that it would cause an apparent heart attack, if a fatal dose were injected into the bloodstream."

She was positioned in a comfortable place under Odin's arm, numerous books on her lap, snugly wedged on a couch in her living-room, in the midst of what ought to have been her heaven, but she really had to _pee. _

"How so?" Odin said, putting down his _Encyclopedia of Death_, which Hermione had enlisted him to search. (It relieved her to have someone with half a brain help her research; she enjoyed the process, but it was grueling.)

"Itwouldpreventnervesignalsfromworkingright, and wouldstopmusclesandnervesfromworking, thusstoppingtheheart" Hermione read breathlessly, and extricated herself from couch, books, and Odin. "Sorry, I really have to use the loo," she explained, thrusting the book (_Creative Ways to Kill_) into his hands.

"So the heart would stop when the excess potassium got to it?" Odin asked aloud as she dashed up the stairs.

"More or less," she replied, and shut the door.

She saw her mum's shampoo sitting on the counter as she sat down, and it made her immediately sadder. No, actually not so much, she told herself; she had gotten over Snape, and now she was thoroughly in love with Odin Longbottom.

A laugh elicited from her lips when she realized how strange that sounded; three months ago she would have smacked herself silly.

But even being in love was Odin was a lie, she acknowledged privately. He was, inherently, a good man, though flawed, and she ought to have no one else on her mind. Still, Snape plagued her dreams and desires. Odin, with all of his commonalities with Snape, was not _him_, and therefore not satisfactory.

It was suddenly, whilst in her musings, her passionate desire to kiss Odin. They had not, as of yet, even touched each others' lips, and she thought such restraint was silly.

_I want to kiss him, _she thought wickedly, biting her lips and feeling them to ascertain that they were not chapped. That would be the ultimate test to see if she could keep Snape out of her mind; if she kissed Odin and liked it enough that she forgot Snape, why, there was her problem solved!

It was easy to do in theory, but difficult in practice. Odin was sitting, cross-legged, on the couch, and Hermione briefly observed him from afar. In the month since they first met, the characteristic Longbottom roundness had returned to his once-emaciated features, though he was far from fat. His hair had gotten longer, and more lush, and his face was still smoother than most at his age.

He really looked twenty two, and she found this unappealing. _Since when was five year's apparent age difference disgusting? When I was done with Viktor Krum, I guess._

"Better," she said with a sigh, sitting back down on the couch next to him. He seemed to expect her to nestle against him again, and put his arm up on top of the couch's top in accordance, but she felt hot, and they had just found what they had been looking for, and ultimately she felt little need to cuddle at the moment.

"So, Potassium Chloride."

He was not expecting a lecture on it; he did not need one, like Ron or Harry. He was just happy, like she was, to have discovered the solution.

"Did they find any indication of a syringe prick on her?" Hermione asked.

Odin shook his head. "Not that I know of. But I suppose they weren't looking for one. Do you know what this discovery means," he continued, gleefully, "This means that The Count has _not_ been let off the hook. Much less anyone else, of course," he added, a bit more petulant.

"You're right. Potassium Chloride could be administered by anyone. Even..." she paused. "...even Augusta herself."

"But _why_ would she do _that_?" It was clear from his tone that he had already considered the option of suicide.

She racked her brains, but the only remote reason she could think of was far-fetched. "To punish you by making you out to be her killer? But, then," she corrected herself, "What sane person would kill themselves, while in adequate health, to frame a black-sheep son who they had not talked to for years?"

He seemed to agree, and he sighed. "I rather did like the idea of her doing herself in, but _Le Comte _is just as good a subject for us to focus on." He added, "We should still pass this on to the Solicitors, at any rate. They are, after all, the ones officially investigating this case."

Hermione nodded, feeling as though they had been cheated.

"It doesn't seem fair, but that's the correct procedure," she replied ambiguously.

Without an answer for a moment, Odin stared at _Creative Ways to Kill. _"Do you suppose they'll make them have another look at her?" he said, with a mocking shudder. "I'd be gravely unhappy to be the coroner."

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

_Review. It's what you do. _


	23. On Suspected Squibs and Magic Toddlers

_I'm not just kidding when I say that I'm not J.K._

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

**Chapter 23**

The next Saturday, Snape met Becky when she arrived at seven, scowling ferociously.

"Good morning, Mrs. Hawthorne."

She grinned at him in her usual cheery way, and Snape almost doubted whether his confrontation of her was necessary. However, coincidentally or not, there was a large bruise on one side of her face. It seemed perhaps a few days old, and was healing, but it looked rather bad.

"Good morning," she replied, putting on her sunhat as she got out of the car. "You're not usually awake at this time on a Saturday," she observed with her normal complacency. Snape sneered in response.

"You're strangely correct. Come in," he said, a little more gently, "I have something of importance to discuss with you."

She appeared surprised, and a little on her guard. "Certainly, Mr. Snopes," she answered, and followed him in, frowning a little.

He waved her into a comfortable chair in the study, and sat down opposite, just close enough to be confrontational without indicating that he might want something _besides _small talk.

It occurred to him that she was really quite pretty, even in her childlike overalls, dingy garden gloves, and straw Coolie hat. But, he could understand that a man could get bored with her; she was one of the kind that wanted nothing but to please, and once she had pleased...over and over and over...well, _some _men of low morals would throw her over. Severus would not do so, if she were his, but he would not marry such a dull kind of person anyhow, much less get into any kind of intimate situation with her.

"Mrs. Hawthorne," he said, shaking away his thoughts, "What happened to your face?"

She seemed to be less enthused to be on the receiving end of interrogation than the distributing end, but she held up self-deprecating smile.

"Tripped over some of Tommy's toys two days ago. I knew they were there, I just forgot in the dark, and...wham, I fell and hit myself on the side of the coffee table."

The story was convincing, as was her delivery, but Snape still was not pacified. He stood, and began to pace around her in his swooping manner, and missed his cloak because it added such a dramatic element. It was time for bluntness.

"I met your husband the other night."

Her entire expression changed, and she cringed.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

Somewhere on the other side of the world, Odin and Hermione had fallen asleep on top of one another, waiting by the phone for a call from The Solicitors which had not come.

Hermione snuggled deeper into her boyfriend's side. "Mmmmm," she breathed in her drowse. It had been a long time--months, in fact--since she had fallen asleep so close to a man.

He woke up in response, his eyes blinking open lazily and registering Hermione's arms around him. Cracking the pain in his neck (from sleeping in a weird position), he nuzzled his cheek against her sweater's shoulder and closed his eyes again.

"Severus," Hermione said, of a sudden, and Odin opened his eyes again, wide. "What, my darling?" he asked softly. He thought he had misheard.

But she stayed silent.

Shrugging off a nasty feeling that was beginning to root, he decided he had heard wrong and leaned into her side again.

All of a sudden, he felt her moving as if to get up. Groaning, he moved so that she could, but before he could make significant headway, he felt her breath heavy on his neck, and a wet tongue creeping over his skin.

In the dim lamplight, he blanched, unmovable. _What is she thinking? It's the bloody middle of the night!_

He was enjoying it, though.

Too quickly, he found her hungry lips, and began to kiss her back. She was sparkling with passion, and he liked it.

He decided to put a hold on it when her roving fingers started to undo his belt, despite how his nether regions pleaded against such a rational decision. It would never do for her to go _down there_, at least, not now.

She seemed to have fallen immediately asleep, though, as soon as he removed her arms from around him, and he kissed her softly on either cheek.

They might not be perfect for each other, but there was nobody else for either of them...was there?

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

Becky, aside from cringing, appeared tired. "And what did you discover, Mr. Snopes?" She sounded strangely sarcastic.

Severus sat down, now that he had her attention. "I discovered, Mrs. Hawthorne," he said carefully, "That your husband is...please, don't take this the _wrong_ way..._undeserving _of you."

His concerned expression said it all, and Becky's eyes glazed over. She said nothing for a moment, her throat constricting noticeably, and then she put her gloves over her eyes as she began to sob.

"I'm sorry," she apologized, having dropped the superficial mask that she had worn for months in front of him, "I just don't know what to do."

Severus sat back, feeling very much at a loss. Comforting Draco, whose favorite rant was about his father and lack of personal autonomy, was a far different matter than comforting Becky Hawthorne.

"I'm certain that it's not as bad as it could be," he said with the gentlest tones possible, using his own childhood as a yardstick.

"Oh yes," she said sincerely, "It's bad. It's so very bad." Her sobbing was becoming more and more hysterical. "I don't know what you saw, when you saw him, but it's not the worst, I'm sure."

Snape offered her a handkerchief. "You can...talk about it. These ears are alive and responsive." He hated to use the informal 'me' or 'my' pronouns when in the vicinity of solitary women. Referring to himself as an object rather than as a human being was a defense technique he had acquired when visiting with distraught female Slytherin students.

"You see," she elaborated, "The worst part is, I think I'm going crazy."

"Really." His reply was noncommittal. _What does this have to do with her husband? _he wondered, but decided to just let her vent. He would listen first and ask questions to clarify later.

"Oh yes. I've been seeing really the strangest things, especially surrounding Thomas. He won't eat oatmeal; that's a rule most children follow, but the problem is, where other children throw it on the floor, his bowl leaps backward! Last week, he wanted a toy from a shelf beyond his reach, and mine, and when I went to get a step-stool from the other room, he had it in his arms! When he gets upset, he dumps out all the tissue boxes in the room without touching them!"

Snape thought about the time in the Greek restaurant, when his plate kept leaping forward at him though he could not eat another bite. _Was that Thomas' doing? _he thought. Probably so.

Becky, however, was clearly shaken out of her wits.

"I ask you," she said seriously, "What's a kid of three doing to make things move without touching them?" She paused. "You think I'm crazy?"

"No," Snape replied, honestly.

"Well, I do," she stated, miserable. "I thought for a long time I was just seeing things. I hoped it had to do with my migraine meds. And for a while I even considered some kind of genetic mutation; I drank a lot when I was With Tommy," she added. "But I've looked at so much information, online and in print...and, God, I just don't know what to do. The only thing I can think of is that he has some sort of...magic powers or something."

She shuddered. "Grover started noticing before I did."

"Noticing _what_, pray?"

"That something was _wrong with me!" _Her arms flailed helplessly, then flopped to her sides. "He was like, 'Becky, why did you stop giving the kid oatmeal!' And I had to tell him. Tommy wasn't eating it. And all he said was 'Well, you can't give him eggs every morning. He'll get kidney stones.' And what was I supposed to do? Argue? Tell him what I saw?"

_Yes_, Snape thought callously. _Yes, you should have argued. Yes, you should have shown him what the kid was doing.  
_

"I tried to show him, I really did. It's not something that he could just believe if I told him. But any time I gave Tommy oatmeal in front of his dad, he just threw it on the floor like it was anything else. And then Grover-" She broke off. "Well, you don't need to know what Grover did."

_I can infer_, Snape thought, his temper rising. _This man sounds more and more like my father. The only problem is, Becky thinks that the fault lies with _her.

Years of guilt began to rise in his throat. He had wanted so much to go back and teach his father a lesson in respect, all of his adult life. Severus would never have treated Lily the way Tobias treated Eileen. It was not right; he should have made more of an effort to help her, when he could have, no matter how she sent him out of the room during their fights. Years later, when Severus finally had gotten his priorities in order, his father was already dead, and his mother was already insane.

He sighed.

"No, I don't," Snape said, shoving his thoughts away and accommodating her. "But you said that _he_ noticed there was something wrong with _you?_"

"Yes, he did," Becky sniveled, "He'd been growing...distant...ever since Tommy was born. I...I don't think he really wanted to marry me, but I was going to have a kid; what was I supposed to do? Raise a child without a father?"

"The boy was an accident, then?"

Her reaction was to crumple in her chair. "Don't...don't say it like that," she gasped. "That's what Grover says. When I told him I was going to have a baby, all he had to say was profanity. It was really horrible; we were at a nice restaurant and he just stood up and started screaming at me..."

"Don't think about that," Snape said, hurriedly, eager to placate her. "Do you regret having the boy?"

And, immediately afterward, he realized it was a stupid, stupid question. She loved Thomas. It was evident in how often she talked about him, how they had interacted that night at the Greek restaurant, how horrible she felt to call him an 'accident'.

When he made the suggestion, it was clear that she was angry.

"Don't you _dare _think that I don't love him!" she whispered hoarsely. "My child is all I really have. My...my Grover's not even really a husband any more," she said, though she seemed to struggle with the confession, "and I don't have any other friends. I've grown up in this town, but the people here don't care about me. They don't understand me. Oh, I just want to get away!" In her agony, she buried her face in the upholstery of the chair.

He felt a deja-vu, and thought in a terrified way, _She looks like mum did after my father beat her._ This realization made Becky's forced cheerfulness all the more transparent. _It was all a facade. She's got a wretched home life, and she's dealing with it just like my mother did._ Indeed, Eileen Snape had done her best to put on appearances for Severus; she never failed to smile when he entered the room, always tried to work hard and never tire, and ultimately keep his father at bay. It was only an act, he realized when he was older, and now he berated himself for not recognizing Becky's symptoms earlier.

"So, you married him because that was what was right and proper...only he has not been treating you well," Snape reviewed, pity swallowing his features. It was rare that he ever felt so raw for another human being.

"No," she sniffed, "He doesn't. Oh, but Mr. Snopes!" she said, sitting straight and looking at him. "I do so love Grover, very much. I...I knew he wasn't a good man when we got first involved, but...oh, this sounds silly to say...but I thought I changed him."

_O! Grover Hawthorne, rue the day you married this woman_, Snape thought. _She does not deserve you. _

"It seems that you were wrong." That statement seemed a little insensitive, so he added, quietly, "I'm sorry, so very sorry."

"I know I was wrong. But one hears...things...things like that that happen," Becky said wistfully. "Well, maybe in Romance novels. The flawed, wayward, rotten liar being swept away by the pretty compassionate girl who listens to him and adores him despite him."

Snape thought immediately of Lily, but, strangely, his thoughts shifted to Granger, imperceptibly. Disgusted, he shook the bonny-brown curls out of his head.

"You don't deserve the 'bad boy', Mrs. Hawthorne," he said, though he absently wondered if he was also speaking to a furry know-it-all across the Atlantic. "The 'bad boy' never changes."

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

"Changed? Of course, I've changed," Odin said, feeling very awkward. He and Hermione were having breakfast, albeit a very stiff one. Dr. and Mrs. Granger had _not _been happy to find Odin and Hermione _sleeping _together on the couch, no matter how accidental or innocuous it appeared. They had left for work, however, after Hermione's assurance that she and her boyfriend would be out of the house for the day in two shakes of a lamb's tail.

"Well, sometimes I just don't know about that," Hermione said firmly. "I could have sworn you were lying just now."

"About what, pray?"

She ducked her head and whispered. "Last _night, _I mean."

"What about last night?" An all-too-blatant salacious smile flitted across his lips.

Now she was angry. "You bloody well know what you said! And I _didn't!"_

He shrugged. "You did. It was to the point where you were fiddling with my belt buckle."

Aghast, her eyes widened. "I _didn't._"

"_You did."_

She gagged. "I thought I was dreaming."

"I thought I was, too, until you started-"

"-No, I was quite literally _asleep._ In REM cycle ten or something. I don't remember anything...not with..."

She frowned. It would _not _be good form to tell her boyfriend of...what, two weeks?...that, while making out with him on her own couch, she was dreaming about her Potions Master who was supposed to be dead, but wasn't, and had packed off to America to avoid her romantic inclinations?

What the _hell _was she thinking?

"...with what?" Concern came into his eyes, then acute disappointment. "Oh. With _me."_

"I'm so sorry," she said, softly. "I really didn't know."

He shook his head. "No, no, don't apologize. You weren't to know. For all you thought, it was just a really vivid dream. I should have really known better. Oh, Lord!" He looked up to the heavens with intense reverence and silently prayed _Thank you for my restraint, for my patience, for my caution.  
_

"You're all right?" she asked him, and he nodded glumly, bringing his thoughts back to earth. "I'm really, truly sorry. Is...I hope..." She was not sure if he wanted to end it at that point. If she were in his position, she might feel bad enough to do so.

Instead, he shook his head. "I know what you're thinking, but no. I entered this knowing, like the fool that I am, that your heart was already set on someone else, and I'm still prepared to live with that. I just..." He cringed. "I had no idea you were so _enamored._"

"That was really just...well..." She shrugged. "I can't explain it."

"Don't bother." He bit his lip, and shook his head. "I'm capable of dealing with it. It's not your fault at all. I guess I'm a tad fuzzy at the moment. Shock, you know it's called."

Silent, she extended her hand and, tentatively, wrapped it around his. He pressed his thumb to hers, but otherwise did not respond.

Finally, he sighed and looked her in the eye. "I enjoyed it, for the record, and I suppose we should try it more often."

"Preferably when we're both conscious."

He attempted at a laugh at the poor humor, and failed, but the tension was broken.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

"I'd be willing to kill him, if you like," Snape told Becky as he served her some very comforting English tea and biscuits. 'Cookies', she called the latter; how odd.

He had revealed, in his non-elaborative way, his unique perspective of the familial situation, and Becky had found comfort in his strange view.

She chuckled sadly, obviously in a better humor. "Not unless legal methods don't work. So that's just the best thing, then, is to get a proper divorce? If not, at least a restraining order?"

"That seems to be the most logical course of action."

She shook her head. "I don't really know why he turned so nasty on me. You know, now that the cat's out of the bag, the reason we're not living here in Huckleberry House is because Grover didn't like it."

"Really." _So fate really has a way of tidying up all the loose ends, doesn't it?_

"But I still love it. I think...I think...well, maybe I oughtn't."

He did not need to ask what she was thinking. _She'd like to have it to herself once she's free of him._

She seemed a bit uncomfortable after that; she probably sensed that he knew what she had thought. "I really don't know why it didn't work out, with me and him. I mean, it could have worked if he tried harder. It could still work. It's not as though I did anything wrong, I think. Or maybe-"

"-No. Short of you walloping him over the head with a pan, I don't see what justifies punching you in the face."

Nodding, she agreed. She seemed more at peace, more resolute after their discussion. "I can't thank you enough, Samuel."

(They had gone to first-name basis after this. Severus thought it best to start getting himself accustomed to his 'real' name, and, besides, he saw that he was going to be her real friend in this whole extrication-from-the-Snape-Scenario thing.)

"Well," he said slowly, "I'm afraid you'll have even more to thank me for, if my hypothesis is correct."

She frowned. "You have a hypothesis?"

"Yes. That you're not crazy at all."

"Oh. That." With a sigh, she added ten years to her appearance. "What do you think is the matter with Tommy, then?"

He shook his head. "Can't tell you unless I'm absolutely correct. When can you go get him from...the monster?"

Apparently, Grover was going to bring Tommy home to be baby-sat by the neighbor girl until Becky got home, because Grover had to go to work for the rest of the day. So, Becky ushered Snape into her car and drove him to her house.

"We're here," she announced, trying to be cheerful again and almost succeeding. Snape surveyed the home. Of course, her being a Realtor, it was perfect for her little family of three.

It was small, but elegant and a little quaint, with a lovely front porch with a comfortable wicker rocking chair. It looked like a family home.

Unfortunately, what dwelt within was not much of a family.

When Becky went in, she immediately relieved the babysitter of her ward, picking up baby Thomas and swinging him high in the air.

"How did little Tommy like the park?" she asked in a motherly sing-song voice, and the boy laughed. "Good, good," he responded, and she let him down again.

"Go say hi to Mr. Snopes," she insisted, "Mommy needs to make a phone call."

The three-year-old smiled warily at Snape until he remembered, "Greek place!"

Snape blessed the boy with a half-smile; he really was a sucker for little kids if he wasn't counting the years until he was teaching them. "Hullo, Thomas," he greeted warmly, and lifted the child into his arms. Discretely, making sure that Becky was in the other room, Snape got out his wand.

Unfortunately, his grip was too slight, and as soon as he saw it, Thomas grabbed it by, strangely, the correct end, and waved it at the ceiling. As he did, multiple colored building-blocks flew up and attached themselves to the plaster.

Snape put the boy down immediately and yanked his wand from the child's hands. "Fool," he chastised himself, while Tommy laughed. Severus quickly unbound the blocks and levitated them to the ground. Thomas, like the idiot he was, began to clap eagerly.

"What's the ruckus?" Becky asked, coming into the room with the phone under her ear. "I'm talking to my attorney, now," she added in a whisper.

Snape shrugged, and replied demurely, "My hypothesis is correct."

_Which means, I have a whole lot of explaining to do. Curses. How in the world does one tell a Muggle--who lives in a town of PRETEND witches and wizards--that their son is a REAL wizard? _

_Well, one must try.  
_

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

After their breakfast discussion, Hermione and Odin received their long-awaited phone call from the Solicitors, only to receive some definitely-day-brightening news: Augusta Longbottom had a single pin prick on her right arm, just above a vein.

In response to this, they reviewed their suspect list one last time (Odin, Neville, Le Comte, The Houselves?, Augusta herself) and went to the mansion to look for evidence of the crime.

The place was over-run with Aurors, who had quarantined Neville and the House Elves outside, under guard, while the house was thoroughly searched. Hermione recognized one or two of the Aurors from her days with The Order, but otherwise they were not known to her.

"Do they know what to look for?" she asked Jamison, who was the unofficial ground-supervisor of the investigation. He frowned when she asked and said nothing.

"Can we go in?" asked Odin, and Jamison solidly shook his head.

"Then may I try at least a single experiment?" Hermione asked, "Under your supervision, of course, sir?"

Jamison sighed. While the girlfriend of one of the top murder suspects, _the _top subject in his book, Hermione Granger was still the best female platonic friend of The Boy Who Lived, and it would not be good to slight her _too _much.

"If it is reasonable."

She explained that all she wanted to try and do was simply 'accio' the syringe. Jamison thought about it.

"But the location of the evidence has to be noted," he said carefully, "It's almost as important as the evidence itself. The location can make the evidence invalid, or valid."

Hermione thought about this briefly. "What about _unaccio? _Would that do? Just tie a thread to the object when we send it back, and it'll tell us where it is."

Jamison did consider it, but shook his head. "The Aurors use something similar to that already; a simple _accio _has the potential to disturb other potential evidence, anyhow, and if the evidence in question is in the scene of the crime...well, that would make things difficult."

Hermione nodded, and she slipped her arm into Odin's. He smiled, but looked a little sad still. She would have a hard time making up for that midnight snog.

"Sir, we've found it. Traces of Potassium Chloride still on it. Found conveniently tossed in the closet of the victim. No fingerprints."

Jamison nodded, sighing with what appeared to be disappointment.

"It seems," he said stiffly, "That we were right." He addressed the Auror one last time, "Did you search the room in its entirety for fingerprints?"

The Auror nodded. "The standard fingerprint search charms were used, sir, and found those on file for Augusta Longbottom, Neville Longbottom, those of their house-elves, and two sets of unidentified prints."

"Ah!" Jamison looked at Hermione and Odin. "We'll need some prints from these folks, Auror Jamua."

The man nodded. "Yes, sir." Thus saying, he led the pair over to a table where examinations of objects was taking place.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

Oh, just as a friendly reminder, **I sit at the computer for maybe an hour after I post a new chapter, waiting...waiting for reviews. **If I don't get more than one or two, I feel like I've failed you, the readers.** _So please, do review!_**

_Review. It's ALWAYS what you do. At least, ALWAYS review the stuff that's good. I defer to whitehound's general perspective when it comes to reviewing.  
_


	24. On Fingerprints and History

_I'm not just kidding when I say that I'm not J.K._

I just posted a little commentary on my LJ about Salem, because Aurelie Rose came up with a valid question regarding Salem School for Witchcraft and Wizardry, or whatever you want to call it. Go ahead and look it up; it's public. My username on LJ is sweetplumeria22. The post is entitled 'Salem School for Witchcraft and Wizardry?' and it may be a bit of a good extra explanation as to why there's really no wizards to be heard of in Salem.

Oh, and it did not occur to me until now that _Hermione's parents were still supposed to be in Australia after DH! _So...erm...let's just say that they were the first thing that she corrected when the Dark Lord was dead. I can't believe I missed THAT. I believe I need to briefly edit the first two chapters for continuity's sake. Plus the 'Australia' thing is pretty horrible, considering that Hermione's parents were supposed to have just come back from there...Anyhow, those things will be corrected as soon as I've posted this chapter.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

**Chapter 24**

When Becky finally accepted the fact that magic was _not _something that was just in her head, she embraced it.

"So, I guess my ancestor Reverend Hale was really a wizard. It wasn't just that the witch-hunting made his screws a little loose."

Of course, this led to the inevitable flow of questions about Magic, how Magic Affects My Son, and how Magic Affects Our Future. With careful patience that was foreign to his nature, Snape explained as much as he could, which was a great deal. He endured Becky's questions with a grace to which Hermione Granger had never been privy.

Of course, once the usual Muggle questions had been answered, there came more interest on Becky's part about her new friend's involvement in the wizard world of Britain.

"You mentioned there was a war?"

He told her about it, marginally aware of the irony that here he was, helping a new Thomas ease into the Wizarding World, just like Albus Dumbledore had eased Tom Riddle into the realm of Magic. Only, Snape fancied he could do a far better job. He did not want Tommy Hawthorne to end up a homicidal power-hungry maniac who would be responsible for _his _death in the end.

The parallels were not as staggering between Riddle and Hawthorne as those between himself and the boy, but they were there. Snape knew, from what he had heard over the years, that the Dark Lord was a half-blood, as much as he hated half-bloods and Muggle-borns. Tom Hawthorne was a Muggle-born, descended from the (presumably veritable) wizard Rev. Hale. Snape was itching to get to a library and look up Hale, but he had no idea where to find a wizarding library, and could not very well go to the American Ministry of Magic to find one--even if he knew _how _to get to it--because he was still in the U.S. illegally. He couldn't take a Portkey back to Britain to look him up; that was impractical, and, besides, he was supposed to be _dead._

One solution presented itself--send an owl to Hermione Granger and ask her to look these things up for him. He shirked from it. He had not done a very good job of finding other wizards in The States, but it was not impossible. There was a good chance that he could dredge up information from the Apothecary where he sent his potions to be sold concerning Where He Could Find a Library near him. However, he was not thrilled at the idea of being so involved with other people so soon; he was not comfortable with an American accent yet, and he was instantly marked as a British Dude otherwise, which attracted undue attention.

No, it would be faster--and safer for him--to just send for information. Never mind that it was from _Granger_, of all people.

"I have to go home," he said to Becky, quietly. He had been at their house for three hours, talking and talking and answering Becky's innumerable questions. He guessed that he had not done nearly so much talking since before his escape from death. "When does your husband return?"

Becky looked at the clock. "Not for a while," she replied. "If I know him, he gets off work about five, might or might not pop in for dinner, and then he leaves again to...to who knows what." She ran a tired hand through her mousy hair. "I think he sees women. But I already told you that."

"It bears repeating." Snape shook his head. Becky was not a woman worth throwing to the side like Grover Hawthorne had done.

She was clearly torn up at the prospect of a separation, and several times during their conversation, she had broken into tears at the randomest reminders of her husband. "I love him. I don't want to leave him. But I love Thomas more. And I know that Grover hurts me, and I shouldn't accept that, but I do. I'll do anything to make him happy."

_The same, however, could not be said of him_, Snape growled lowly to himself.

He stood up. "Becky, I assure you that I am fully on your side. If he comes in, drunk and violent, as you've said he's done, I want you to call me. If you just telephone, you do not need to even say anything. I'll be there before the second ring."

(He had already shown her Apparation, which had enchanted her.)

She nodded. "All right."

However, she seemed loathe to have him leave. Snape looked around.

"On second thought," he suggested, "Perhaps you ought to come back to Huckleberry House. I really hate the idea of leaving you to his mercy. Men of his disposition are highly unpredictable."

He spoke from experience. That night in the bar, Grover had gone from pensive and moody to extremely irate, in just a matter of seconds.

Becky agreed. "That sounds like a good idea. Can...can I bring my girlfriend along?"

He frowned. _I thought you didn't have any friends._

"She's not really very close to me, anymore," she said, a bit sheepish, "She...she actually told me not to marry Grover, and we haven't spoken since. But if I tell her she was right, maybe she'll forgive me for some of the things I said."

Not wanting to get too involved, but knowing what it was like to sacrifice friendship over stupid disagreements, Snape nodded solemnly.

Becky went to the phone, talked for a few minutes, and came back smiling. "She's coming," she said, clearly happy. "Sorry it took so long. She...she started crying on the other side. She didn't know how right she had been."

Snape nodded. "Get the boy, bring whatever you need. You ought to write some kind of note, you know." _It wouldn't be fair for her to leave without some indication of _why. _Even the wife-beater deserved as much. _

Agreeing, Becky 'hopped to it', and they drove back to the mansion.

. . . x. . . X . . . x . . .

Jamison was ruffled. "Well! It seems that neither your prints nor those of Miss Granger here fit those found at the scene of the crime, Mr. Odin."

Odin had been nervous, telling Hermione that if he were truly being framed, his prints WOULD be there, so now he sighed in deep contentment.

Hermione wondered about Odin. Had he been really expecting his fingerprints there? She was starting to think that maybe his whole 'being made the scapegoat' thing was rather far-fetched, and maybe indicative of more than paranoia. Looking at him closely, she decided that his reaction would have been no different if he had really been the killer and they had found no trace of his presence. That unnerved her, and she edged a little bit away from him.

"What about an Aura Trace?" she asked Jamison. "Did they do that, yet?"

An Aura Trace was able to discern whether or not a person had been in a certain amount of space, based on the dust particles emitted by their body.

Jamison nodded. "There were two Unknowns, but otherwise it proved to be in exact accordance with the fingerprint information."

His regard of Odin seemed to indicate that he wished it were different.

Odin, on the contrary, appeared absolutely jolly at the prospect of being cleared. "Brilliant," he said, in a way that made Hermione think of Ron Weasley, "So, what's to be done now?"

Jamison shrugged. "We search for the two unknowns."

"The Count!" Odin exclaimed immediately. He really had an obsession with The Count.

However reluctantly, the solicitor nodded. "We are checking on him now. I've sent two Aurors to his hotel, and they should be back with the necessary information as soon as possible. Now," he said carefully, "The other unknown fingerprints could be anyone. They're not on any law enforcement records, which is interesting, nor are they in the Official Registry of the Ministry of Magic. This means that they are most likely a Muggle, a squib, or a wizard using Polyjuice Potion under guise of one of these."

"Polyjuice? Ugh! It always comes back to Polyjuice!" Hermione exclaimed bitterly. "I hate the stuff," she added in explanation.

_If only because the teacher who had just so happened to meet me in the hallway after the incident with the Cat Hair in 2nd year was Severus Snape._

Odin cast a strange glance at her, and shook his head.

A few hours later, Hermione received a telephone call from the kindly Forbes (1) informing her that, indeed, one set of fingerprints, and one Aura each belonged to _Le Comte_. She was not surprised.

However, there was one other message that arrived about midnight that surprised her indeed. When the tired-looking owl pecked at her window, she had no idea whose it was. Snape fluttered to her mind, but she disposed of the idea as ridiculous.

That is, until she saw his cramped, spidery handwriting.

_Granger:_

_Stuck between rock and tight place. Need information on one Reverend John Hale, influential American wizard who lived around circa 1700, instrumental during Salem Witch Trials. Get descendants' information if possible. _

_Also, listing of public wizarding libraries in California, Massachusetts, Montana, and Colorado, if possible._

_Do not come and search for a dead man. Living under alias. Would not be fruitful.  
_

_Also, do not put trace on bird. Do not interfere. Very busy._

_Keep some shampoo for your trouble. It's not Lavender scented, even though it's Brown.  
_

_S.S._

She was not fooled by the random references to California, Montana, and Colorado; she knew they were camouflage. What would he be doing, researching for information about the Salem Witch Trials if he was not in Massachusetts? _What a silly man he is, to think I would be so easily fooled! _

And what a lovely shampoo, she decided, ignoring the prominent Barb he had sent with the gift. _He obviously thinks I got back with Ronald after he left. What a silly, silly man! _She could not help but smile as her fingers rubbed the green-glass bottle. _But thoughtful, strangely thoughtful. _

It was, she imagined, his way of apologizing. She wondered what scent it was, and uncorked it.

Gardenia. The soft, velvety scent sent her reeling. It was delicious, and she almost wanted to take a shower right then just to use it.

Though his own hair never seemed to have improved by his skill at potions, she was fairly certain that what he sent her would set _Sleakeazy _to shame. If she were Ron, she would probably chuck the bottle away with suspicions of it being full of itching potion. She knew Snape better, though. If he wanted to hurt her, it would have been scented like lilies.

But he had not. And that amounted to something.

In a frenzy, she put on a bathrobe over her pyjamas and ran downstairs to the library. She had research to do.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

"So that's how you send a letter. Could I send or receive a letter by owl, even though I'm a Muggle?" Becky asked. Snape shrugged. He did not know.

They were sitting on the front porch of Huckleberry House, waiting for the arrival of Daisy Lawrence, the friend Becky had telephoned. Severus had shown baby Thomas how to focus his magic on a flower, and the child was having lots of fun making it grow bigger, and smaller, and pinch closed and bloom again.

The little boy had a lot of magic, and extraordinary amount of magic. It was almost unbelievable that such an amount came from a Muggle-Born. Snape knew of only one similar case in his life, that of Lily.

He had always known she had something extraordinary, even when he was a wee child himself. Now, seeing the sheer amount of power that the boy already possessed, at such a young age, he was very pleased to have nipped Becky's inexperience in the bud. Otherwise, she might have not known what to do when the boy came of school age, and she might have both driven him insane and herself, especially when her husband was so nonsupportive and uncaring.

It was good fortune, Severus knew, that he had come along.

_Wait. _He had seen a case like this before, and not just in Lily. _Granger, bloody fucking Granger_.

He was reminded of _her _when he saw the boy's concentration, the biting of his lip as he focused his magic on the flower.

_Granger is powerful, too. Living with her at close quarters made me forget. _

But how could he forget?

"Oh, she's here!" Becky exclaimed, scooping up her little toddler in her arms and hurrying down the steps. Lazily, Snape stood up and stretched. A little beat-up green car drove up, and a rather large woman squeezed out.

"Daisy, darling!"

"Oh, Becky!"

The women embraced, squeezing little Tommy into the mix. Snape felt a pang as he tried to remember the last time he had been greeted so warmly. With a scowl, he turned to surreptitiously strengthen the wicker patio chair he had transfigured for the visitor. He had not imagined that Daisy Lawrence would be a walrus. Then he settled back into the wicker rocking chair he had crafted for himself, crossing his legs and steepling his fingers in a slightly intimidating manner.

He could tell, as soon as she got up to him, that Daisy Lawrence, for all her bulk, was a Gryffindor who would not be intimidated.

"Hello!" she said warmly, and, trying to be cordial, Severus shook hands with her. He knew that he could not make an enemy of her, for the sake of domestic bliss, but he immediately did not like her.

"Hullo."

"Becky's been telling me all about you, Mr. Snopes," the woman continued, and he barely resisted the urge to snort and add, _Hardly. You've been here all of five minutes._

"I've heard much about you, as well," he said, stiffly. "But please, call me Samuel." It was hard for him to be so informal with these American women, but oh well.

Daisy grinned; she was taking a shining to him, probably perceiving his discomfort at meeting her as shyness. "Aw, all right," she said in a cloying manner. "How 'bout Sam? Is that okay?"

"Fine." It was not his real name, it was not as though she were using the sacred shortening of Severus, the _Sev_ of Lily's usage.

He nodded towards the reinforced chair at the other side of the porch. "Dinner is nearly ready. Feel free to sit out here and chat with Becky and Thomas."

So saying, he quickly spun around and went into the house. He wished he had the Extendable Ears that the Weasley boys produced; they would be very useful to listen to the women while he prepared the salad and some extra pasta. _I figure that monster of a woman eats a ton..._

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

Hermione was so engrossed in her readings about the Salem Witch Trials that it was morning by the time she remembered why she had gotten into her library in the first place. Yawning from lack of sleep, she puttered into the kitchen and poured herself some cold milk. It was to her surprise that she found her mum already awake, making coffee.

"Honey?"

"Good morning, mum."

Mrs. Granger looked hard at Hermione's haggard face. "You were up all night."

"Yeah. Doing research."

"On what?"

"Salem Witch Trials."

"Intriguing. I'm guessing they weren't really magic, right?"

"No. It's said that there was a fungus of some kind in the wheat that made the girls hysterical."

"Oh. That makes sense."

"However," Hermione said, "One of the men investigating them--a Reverend--was really a wizard, and he had a hard time trying to convince everyone that there was no such thing as magic. Really interesting."

"Hm." Mrs. Granger did seem worried. Hermione put her arm around her.

"What's wrong, mum?"

Taking a deep breath, Mrs. Granger closed her eyes and said, very quietly, "I don't like the young man you've been hanging out with. Whatever happened between you and Ronald? Your father and I liked Ronald immensely."

Hermione knew this confrontation was bound to happen sooner or later. "It just...mum...it just wasn't working. All we did was argue. He was clingy. I was independent."

"Your father and I made it work."

This was an interesting development. "You were like me when you were my age?" she asked softly. It was strange to think of; she always had thought of her parents as a unit, complementing each other perfectly. Their disagreements were so insignificant that it never had occurred to her that they might, at one point, have been the bickering kind.

"Yes," Mrs. Granger said, looking sad. "We know you're different, though, than us. You aren't willing to settle on someone you know you'll be happy with...you want to experiment. Is that correct?"

"Relatively speaking," Hermione replied. "I mean..." She paused. "Odin and I are really well suited, mum, if you think about it."

"Oh, but intelligence isn't everything," Mrs. Granger sighed, "It's character, too. And your father and I...we just don't trust him. He's so much older than you, so dodgy about our questions...we don't dislike him, mind, but we don't like him, either."

Hermione nodded, wondering if they would prefer Snape.

"Mum, I know what you mean. He and I aren't really serious, yet. I hope you understand that."

Mrs. Granger nodded. "I'm glad to hear it. Are you two on the rocks already, or just not enamored?"

_Enamored. The word Odin used to describe my love for Severus Snape._

She nodded. "We're not _in love _or anything. Just casual dating, really."

Relief flooded into Mrs. Granger's face. "Good. All right, thanks for the update. I don't want to seem like a worrywort, but I'm your mother, and you still aren't very old..."

Laughing, Hermione kissed her mother's cheek. "Don't worry about me. I'll be chaste until marriage. I've always stood for that."

"Well, young men sometimes have their own agendas, my dear."

"And Odin just happens to be one who respects my virginity, for whatever convoluted reason he has." She laughed, but her mother looked serious.

"Just because they say it does not mean they mean it," she warned.

Hermione grimaced, thinking how he had told her _you were fiddling with my belt buckle_, and she shook her head.

"Actually, he's one I'm pretty sure about, but just the same, I'll exercise the greatest caution."

She kissed her mum again and went to the library to finish up her report for Snape, deciding that any ability to sleep at that point had been dissolved after such a talk about the Birds and the Bees. _Besides, he said 'between a rock and a tight place'. He's a man of understatement, usually; he probably is in danger without this information._

This idea accompanied her as she went feverishly to work.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

1: I do not think that Hermione has the floo network hooked up to her house. Sorry. And I guess lawyers have to put up with all sorts of people, both Magical and Non-Magical, so a simple telephone call shouldn't be out of their league.

How can I make y'all review THIS TIME? Uh...let me remind you that **I've put up four chapters in a week? **If I get ONE REVIEW PER READER this week I'll be very pleased. If you review each chapter individually, THAT WILL MAKE ME VERY HAPPY!

_Review. It's ALWAYS what you do. At least, ALWAYS review my work. :) I'm cool, aren't I?  
_


	25. On Arrests and Arguments

_I'm not just kidding when I say that I'm not J.K._

OH, by the way, you should ALL check out my new profile, which already has much better stories on it than this one. There's a link on my main profile, or you can search for me. Username: **Anachronistic Anglophile.** User number: **1996191. **

As you can see, I'm plowing through this!

You can add me on LJ or something, if you want. I'm getting active there again. **sweetplumeria22**

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

**Chapter 25**

That evening was actually rather entertaining, in Snape's book, though he grumbled about it the entire time.

Dinner was not fancy, just those little bow-tie pastas called _farfalle_ with a butter sauce, and chicken and salad. Surprisingly, Daisy Lawrence was not a big eater; apparently she had thyroid problems, but unlike most people with health issues, she kept relatively quiet once the explanation had been given.

It was good of her to come, really. To look at them, no one would guess that they had been estranged for two years. Becky had given Severus their background, and apparently the girls had been friends since High School, which was the American equivalent of Secondary had been as close as sisters then, and now they had resumed their easy conversation as though nothing had happened.

Somehow they got onto the topic of age, and it was revealed that Becky was only twenty and six, while Daisy was twenty and seven, separated by a few months. Both seemed surprised at Snape's confession that he was thirty and eight. They could do nothing more than stare; it took him a moment to register that there was a mix of pity and surprise. They had both put him at fifty.

The giant elephant in the room was, of course, the issue of Grover to consider. Snape knew that Grover worked at an insurance agency, and it was possible that he could use that to his advantage in the court case, somehow. He wanted to talk about it, but the ladies seemed too intent on catching up, and there was Thomas to entertain, and Snape ended up making dinner, and playing with the kid and feeding him during dinner. The women, at least, decided it was their place to clean up.

"That was a fantastic supper," Daisy said, sitting down next to Snape on the sofa, as the former absent-mindedly bounced Thomas on his leg.

"Thanks," Snape drawled, looking for Becky and continuing to bounce Tommy, even though his ankle was getting numb.

"Now, excuse me for this, but I have to ask," Daisy said, lowering her voice and leaning towards him.

Snape swallowed. _Oh no._

"Are you...and Becky...involved romantically?" Daisy asked in a whisper. Snape made sure his reaction was definite, but not disgusted.

"Absolutely not."

She nodded. "Good. Because, otherwise, that could make the divorce proceedings tricky." She bit her lip and added, "By the way, what exactly...happened? Why did she finally decide to end it? It seems rather sudden."

Snape shrugged. "She came to work in the garden this morning--she does that of a Saturday--and I noticed she was significantly bruised. You saw it, I presume?"

She nodded.

"I realized it was probably the result of domestic trouble and, I suppose that in telling me about her problems with her husband, she finally came to terms with the fact that he was treating her in ways that a husband should _not_. I admit that I encouraged her to get herself and the child out of the situation, but beyond that, I played no part besides adviser and friend." _Friend. I just called Becky a friend. _He had acknowledged it earlier that day, when they went on first-name basis, but the idea still had not settled in yet.

Daisy's immense face looked immensely happy. "I'm so glad. So it's really your fault. I have to thank you, then, because otherwise I wouldn't be here, I guess."

He supposed, though, that she had missed Becky, and been very missed, which led him to wondering _what if someone had decided to help patch things up between me and Lily? _Though, for the life of him, he could not think of anyone who might have done that.

In any case, he had somehow done so for Daisy and Becky, and the two ladies seemed to have gotten over their differences immediately. He doubted it would be the case with Lily, if he had gotten the chance.

Becky came into the room, at that point, with coffee and tea for Severus and little dishes of ice cream on a tray, and she served everyone with her usual cheerful manner, in a way that made everyone reluctant to talk about the impending divorce. So, no one did.

Over the course of the evening, though, Severus did ask about the Missing Huckleberry Bushes, and Becky cast her eyes down, apologizing for not having asked him, but she had taken the trimmings and a few plants away to put in her own garden. She just had wanted some part of the house to be near her own home.

He told her that it was okay, he could understand sentimentality, and he said nothing more because he realized that Minerva would be looking at him wide-eyed if she heard him say such rubbish.

Strangely, he felt that if Minerva were there, wide-eyed, he would not give a damn what she thought.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

Back in London, Odin came knocking that afternoon, interrupting Hermione's research. Since his evident exoneration from being at the scene of the crime, he was jubilant, and expressed himself in the carefree manner that had been lost since the arrival of the letter from The Solicitors weeks ago.

"_Ma cherie_, you are a dream today!" he said, whisking her off her feet in a crushing embrace.

She laughed. "I don't feel it in the least," she complained, "I've not had a real wink of sleep, save a few hours last night."

"Ah, _les reves mal_, they plague you?"

She decided not to try and explain the situation with Severus' letter. "That, and research."

He nodded in understanding. "Ah, if I had the annals of Alexandria, then I would put them at your disposal, my darling. As it is, I believe any of those old scrolls we would find would be a trifle mouldy and out-of-date."

The idea of searching for scrolls out of the lost libraries of Alexandria so enchanted Hermione that she decided to let him in to the topic of the research, if not the reason for it.

"Well, I do have a modest library at my disposal."

He smirked, and Hermione caught a faint spark of the reverence Snape had displayed when she had shown _him _the Granger library, but it was only faint. Odin had already experienced his first encounter with it, though he was not as astonished or jealous as Snape was.

"Then lead the way, fair Hermione," he insisted with a genteel bow. "Oh, and I did mean to mention," he added, "The particular piece of news I came over to divulge is that they've got The Count in some sort of custody for questioning."

"Oh, well, we knew it was a matter of time," Hermione replied practically.

Then, something struck her. Odin's glee was a little too disconcerting. Why was he so happy to have The Count blamed for the murder? It was not simply a matter of being grateful for being cleared; there was something else wrong.

She started to go over the facts in her head, shoving a pile of papers at Odin absentmindedly, to occupy his interest while she thought.

-Fact: It had been proven that Augusta Longbottom had been killed by an overdose of Potassium Chloride or a similar substance, administered through a syringe.

-Fact: The syringe had been found in the room, wiped empty of fingerprints.

-Fact: It could have really been anyone.

It seemed to her that the _how _was not the problem at all, but _whom?_

She went over the suspects.

It was not Odin. If it was Odin, he would not be so eager to put blame on the Count _after _being exonerated. Also, he signed the waiver forfeiting all the money he would have inherited. While it is possible that he had forged the new will and killed Augusta and then backed out on the money, being merely satisfied with revenge, then she came back to the problem of Why would he put blame on the Count after being exonerated?

Was it really the Count? Hermione thought it unlikely. She did not know why he had showed up in England, but she suspected that he was not the murderer. Otherwise, he would not have stuck around for the funeral. Probably. _Though, it is said that the murderer always revisits the scene of his crime. But that's bollocks._

So, if it was not Odin, and not The Count, and if Odin was so eager to blame the Count, then only one thing made sense: Odin knew who the killer was, and did not want them to be found out.

Was it Neville, then? She did not think that feasible. Odin was willing to stick his neck out for this person by making a ruckus about The Count. It was not just anyone.

Did he think that _she _did it? But that was absurd. Although she knew Augusta Longbottom before her death, she had nothing against her, save she saw how the woman treated her grandson, from the level of an outsider. She did not see enough to warrant _killing _Augusta Longbottom.

Was it Augusta herself? But then why would Odin be hiding it? He _hated _Augusta Longbottom.

And then the answer struck her in the face, and she looked at Odin.

He was looking at her. "I asked you, what is this?"

It was Professor Snape's letter, which was shuffled amid her research papers.

_Shit, shit, double dragon's shit._

"It's the reason I've been looking all this stuff up," she said irritably, trying not to flush. "I _might _have chanced to have mentioned my old potions professor who moved to America?"

Odin looked sad.

"Oh, for Merlin's sake, don't look like a forsaken puppy, Odin. This is the first piece of news I've gotten from him in months. I'm surprised he even wrote me at all. He's not a threat."

"I know he's not. But I had hoped..." A small smile escaped his lips. "...oh, that's the fatality of Hope, isn't it? One can hope, but unless one verifies one's information, it can lead to all sorts of unpleasant assumptions."

She shook her head. "I can't say that I have any clue as to what you're talking about."

_Why am I being so bloody contrary? _she asked herself. _If I didn't know he was hiding something from me...something as significant as the _murderer _we've been after for weeks...I guess it would be different. But no matter. I'm being contrary, and that's that._

He made an effort to smile larger. "Never mind. Pray forgive me, but I must attend the loo."

So saying, he got up, and left her, not breaking composure.

She bit her lip. _No, I won't bloody forgive you. _

And she decided that, as soon as she finished her reply to Professor Snape, she had to make a telephone call. She hoped Forbes was the one in the office today.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

It was early morning when Snape heard the hounding pecking of the weary bird sent to him from across the Atlantic, and he went to open the window.

He was amazed by the heaviness of the package. The girl really knew how to pack books.

He read her letter.

_Snape:_

_ Glad to know you are busy, because I imagine that's the equivalent for doing well. However, 'stuck between a rock and a tight place' concerns me. _

_I sent you loads of information. No need to summarize it in this letter. I only sent the list of Massachusetts libraries; strangely, there are no indications of any libraries at all in the states of Montana--too many mountains, California--too many Mexicans, or Colorado--again, too many mountains. So sorry. _

(He scowled. If he had thought more about his letter, instead of just jotting things down that he needed from her, he would have realized that it was only too obvious. Asking for information about Massachusetts' history and then asking for a list of random state libraries that included Massachusetts...even Potter could figure out where he was, with that piece of evidence.)

_Anyhow, in the light that I have mistaken your offering--it works very well, I must say--as an apology, I forgive you for your transgression of abandoning your hostess without so much as a 'thank-you', 'good-bye', or 'good-riddance!'. In the case that it was not meant that way, if the lovely Gardenia shampoo you sent was purely from the good-will of your heart, then I beg to ask forgiveness of _you _for probably being the sole reason you had to go through the inconvenience of leaving England. I enclose, along with what you asked for, a little gift of my own. _

_There are no traces on this bird. Do you want to be pen-pals? Because I rather think your owl might not survive another back-and-forth trip like this one._

_H.G._

It took him a decent amount of restraint to keep from giving the paper a quick _incendio_. That infuriating girl, he complained. What gift did she think to send him?

To his shock, it was a jar of shampoo, obviously made by herself. He opened it, wary for the tell-tale peppery scent of itching powder, and instead was captivated by the musky scent of dark pine.

_Not a bad scent_, he decided, _And rather suitable to my tastes. _

He decided to try it immediately in his morning shower.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

Hermione and Odin were back at Moriaty's Bread and Butter Kitchen, helping to prepare lunch for their clientele, when there was an official-sounding knock at the front door.

Marty was in his usual corner, and Ms. Warner was busy cleaning the bathroom. Hermione had gloves on, as she was chopping beef, so she motioned to Odin--the official dish-washer at the moment--to go and get the door.

He was greeted by five Aurors.

"Odin Longbottom?" asked the man in front, Auror Jamua (from chapter 14).

"Yes?"

Hermione watched the exchange, putting down her knife and peeling off her gloves.

"We have information that Martin Longbottom is in this establishment. He is wanted for questioning by the law."

Odin cast a glance to Hermione. She tried to look innocent, but her steely eyes betrayed her betrayal.

_He's going to be so bloody mad at me..._

"No, no, gentlemen," Odin said, attempting to make a last stand against them, "He's not here. He's skipped town."

"Excuse me," Hermione heard from the other side of the room, and she saw Marty standing, his face ashen, his arms crossed.

And, all of a sudden, Hermione realized that fighting for the rights of house-elves was stupid. Such pain flooded through the eyes of this broken, brittle Squib that, even in his defensive posture, he looked an utter wreck.

_What kinds of rights do Squibs have_, she wondered. _This one didn't have many._

She wanted run away and do research right then and there, to avoid seeing the Aurors come in and take the poor man away.

_Do I blame him for wanting to have revenge, to get the money for the legitimate son that he knew would be overlooked? _She took refuge in her thoughts as she watched the door close, and Mrs. Warner came out of the bathroom with a scrub-brush in her hand demanding 'What's going on? Where's Marty?', and Odin sat at Marty's place at the back table, his back to the world and his head between his legs.

She realized that Odin was crying.

Would she stand petrified, as she had while witnessing Snape's death, or would she go over to him?

Thinking about it that way, the choice was easy. Gently, she approached him, and put her arm over his shoulder.

"I'm so sorry," she said, quiet, truly penitent. "I couldn't do anything else. I talked to Forbes yesterday, and he said that The Count had a letter that had been sent to him back in July saying that if he came here this week, he'd be sure to benefit. Being a helpless romantic, he thought it was some sort of secret admirer thing from Augusta, wooing him even though she was nearly seventy and he was nearly eighty. He was immensely flattered, until he realized that she was dead, and then he started investigating himself, trying to figure out who had sent him the letter and for what purpose. So the crime was obviously pre-meditated."

She paused. "Did you know what he was up to before he did it?"

Odin shook his head, a simple 'no.' "He told me I didn't need to worry about money in a few weeks, that's...that's all he ever said. He said he had a _plan_, and he and I were going to strike it rich. I dismissed it as senile dreaming. When I got the letter from the Solicitors, that's when I first knew he had done something. I didn't really know _what _he had done, but I was fairly certain that he was responsible for her death. I didn't know what to do. I love him; he's really all the family I have."

"I really do feel terrible," Hermione said, "I can't imagine what it must be like for you right now."

He had no reply.

"Then why were you saying you were framed?"

He shook his head. "It seemed like I _was _being framed. I suspected Jamison. And besides, I wanted to divert suspicion away from him, and myself. The Count was supposed to be the real scapegoat, not me. Just, Marty's plan didn't work out. He was apologizing to me about it this morning, before you got here."

Feeling like she had swallowed lead, Hermione began to rub Odin's shoulder. She was not sure if he still was romantically interested in her anymore, after this. Much less anything else.

"I'm sorry, but I saw through it all. And I couldn't let an innocent man go to prison for something I knew he didn't do."

"It's all right. I should have had the moral strength to do that."

He sighed, and sniffed up stray tears.

"Odin, do you want me to stay? Even though...even though..."

She could not even say something to the accord of 'even though it was _me?'_, because she knew he knew what she meant, and it hurt to think that she had hurt someone so badly.

Without a verbal reply, Odin's hand slithered up his shoulder and grasped hers.

She kissed his cheek and embraced him. Somehow, she felt that he needed her strength.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

After Snape finished his shower, he was downstairs in a jiffy, and began to spread out all the research that Hermione had sent. _A great big pile of it. Oh bloody joy._

Daisy, Becky, and Thomas still were abed, he supposed.

However, as he was reading Hermione's research, he heard a car pull up on the gravel driveway. _Who's arriving? _He suspected that the girls had left early...or late?...and come back.

No such luck. Both the squat green car and the silver car were parked stationary outside. Instead, a red sportscar gleamed obnoxiously in the morning sunlight. Snape dropped the curtain as a loud knock erupted on the door.

"Open up! Open up! Where's Becky? Where's Tommy? I want to see Becky NOW!"

The voice was Grover's, and clearly addled by drink. Snape drew his wand, and cast a spell to strengthen the door's locks.

"What's the racket?"

Daisy was leaning over the banister, in a billowing pink nightgown.

"Grover!" Snape hissed in explanation to her. "Go wake Becky!"

With a curt nod, Daisy did as she was told.

_Ugh, how to deal with this man..._Snape wondered.

He rather wished he could have a go at the man's brakes, or spark plugs or something.

Becky rushed down the stairs, in a pair of old-fashioned pyjama pants and shirt. "It's Grover, isn't it?" she whispered as she padded down the carpeted staircase.

Snape only nodded.

"Let me speak to him," she pleaded, whispering despite the fact that her husband was still yelling and pounding on the front door so loudly that he could not hear her anyway.

Snape growled. "I don't suggest doing so."

"Well, what are we going to do, barricade ourselves in the house?"

At that, something flew through the window, shattering it.

_Damn, I just mended that window after Becky broke it with her shears! _Snape thought, petulant. He needed at least his morning coffee before dealing with abusive husbands.

"Please, I really don't want him to do something rash," Becky insisted.

Snape barely agreed. "Don't ask him in, don't go outside, stand right there and I'll keep you covered."

"With what?" she asked, and he flashed his wand. "You keep that thing with you, always?"

He just nodded. With that, he stepped into the shadows. "I'm unlocking the door," he warned, and threw a wordless _Alohomora._

Calm as the sea on a good day, Becky opened the door to meet her red-faced husband.

"Grover!" she said, hesitating. She seemed inclined to embrace him, but she heeded Snape's advice and stood still instead.

"What are you doing here?" her visitor growled. "This isn't your house."

"Technically, Samuel Snopes is just renting. So yes, it _is _my house." It was a white lie, and Grover did not buy it.

"Nuh-uh. You're _seeing _that creepy guy. You, married, with a _kid?" _He hiccuped on this last note, which indicated where he had been all night.

"Daisy's here, too." Becky's tone was flat.

"Nuh-uh."

"Uh-huh."

"Well, if you're not seeing him, come back with me."

"Did you read my note or what?"

He gave her a half-hearted grin. "I threw it away."

"Well, I can remedy that. You can call Amanda Bright; she happens to have a copy. She's my attorney, after all."

Grover's eyes widened. "So you are serious. You're...leaving me?"

"Don't act like a bloody ignoramus," Snape said, intervening. He was sick of watching this pathetic sycophant. "You're being charged for assault and battery, along with endangering the health and development of your child, philandering, and other _crimes." _He leaned down to meet the hung-over man's eyes. "How _dare _you treat your wife in such a _despicable _and _disgusting _manner. You're no better than a beast--a pig, a boar."

Grover Hawthorne seemed less than impressed. "So, Becky, what kind of kinky stuff have you been doing to this creepy old fuddy-duddy?"

At this, Snape stood straight and folded his arms. "You have insulted your wife, as well as me. Now," he added, his temper rising, "get the fuck off of this property or we'll get you for _trespassing _too, you fucking _bastard!"_

That seemed to scare Grover better. The tough-man act dropping like autumn leaves, Grover sidestepped backwards and off the porch.

"You'll regret this!" he cried, as he got into his car, "All of you will. Especially _you, _Becky! You li'l Whore! You li'l Cunt!"

Becky was irate. "I HATE YOU!" she screamed as he started up his car, like the coward he was. He would not listen to her. "I'VE BEEN MARRIED TO YOU FOR ALMOST THREE FUCKING YEARS AND I CAN'T BELIEVE I EVER LOVED YOU!"

Snape patted her shoulder without thinking what he was doing, he was so focused on his anger with Grover.

_I hope he gets into a car accident and DIES._

By the most uncanny of coincidences, the car, as it was lumbering down the gravel driveway, gave an enormous kick. Snape and Becky looked at each other, but Grover was not stopping, and soon he was off the property.

"I had more I wanted to say," Becky said, almost apologetic. "I just didn't have much time."

Snape nodded. "I understand. Do you feel a bit better?"

She nodded, taking a deep breath. "I think I can take on the world today."

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

_Review. It's ALWAYS what you do. At least, ALWAYS review **my** work. *glare* Or I shall turn you all...into homo snapians!_

_Okay, okay, bad pun. Readers, if there are any Loose Ends you want cleared up, start telling me, please. I can't remember them all.  
_


	26. On the Telly and Morality

_Disclaimer: I'm not JKR. Okay? Okay._

**Chapter 26**

Odin decided, after Marty's arrest, that he really _ought _to get himself a proper job, so he started combing the newspaper ads for available positions that he could get without an orthodox college degree. Nothing seemed to satisfy, though, so after a week he decided to start up his own detective agency. Hermione thought (and outspokenly told him) that he was nuts. But, he got himself a loan from his mum's solicitors, which allowed him to take out a small office and start a campaign of advertisements.

However, he was hindered by a grave bout of depression that settled upon him like a shroud, no matter how much Hermione tried to inspire him with motivation.

But Hermione herself was somewhat irritated at Odin since after the arrest, though she couldn't justify being _too _upset. After all, she'd been the one to turn Marty in, and therefore the blame for Odin's sadness lay on her shoulders.

_He didn't need to dump me for it, though_, she thought peevishly. The arrest had made him withdraw into himself, and along with deciding to get a job, he'd also decided it was time to cool down their relationship. He acknowledged that she _had _done the ethical thing in turning in his father, but he felt that it was a moral blunder.

"He never had anything," Odin complained unhappily, whenever she tried to stick up for herself. "All he wanted was to get a little of his own back. And as a result of your actions, he lost even the chance for that."

"But not having anything, or being treated cruelly, doesn't justify murder," Hermione maintained staunchly.

"Perhaps not," Odin said, "from your view. But I suppose you don't understand what true suffering is."

"And you do?" she'd questioned without thinking.

"I believe so," he'd responded, his eyes baleful and miserable.

Therefore, there was a definite line of divide between the pair. Hermione was rather unhappy at this—she missed his sweet charm and the lovely snogging they'd shared—but it also relieved her of some of the guilt she'd been feeling ever since they'd embarked on a romantic relationship. _I don't feel like I'm betraying anyone anymore_, she decided as she tried to analyze her own feelings. _Though, whom did I feel like I was betraying? Ron or Severus Snape?_

"I'm going to blast the telly to smithereens if you don't stop watching it, you lump," Hermione threatened teasingly as she settled onto the couch next to her friend. For, they were no longer lovers, but friends.

"Leave me alone," responded Odin grumpily, though he didn't scooch over or otherwise indicate that he was uncomfortable with her so close.

"I will _not _leave you alone." With that, she grabbed the bag of crisps he'd been eating from his hand. "If you keep just sitting here, eyes glued to the tube and eating your heart out, you're going to get irreparably fat, and I'll never snog you again."

"_Ma cherie_, you may be right, but you're also a nag." He wasn't truly angry, but he took the chips back again.

With a disgruntled sigh, Hermione settled back into the couch, wondering if he'd mind if she put an arm over his shoulders and turning her attention to the newscaster on the television.

"...reports say that the brakes on the victim's car _had indeed been tampered with, _which leads investigators to suspect that the accident was indeed murder. Under suspicion is the victim's wife, Rebecca or 'Becky' Hawthorne, with whom the victim, Grover Hawthorne, had been having domestic trouble."

On the screen during this dialogue, a drab picture of an immense freeway car crash was displayed, followed by a rather unimpressive (and highly unattractive) photograph of one Becky Hawthorne.

Hermione noticed, in her peripheral vision, that Odin was sitting stock-still as he looked at the screen.

"What is it?" she asked, turning to her friend.

"Shh!" the other said violently, never taking his eyes off the television. A video of the suspected Mrs. Hawthorne surrounded by microphones came into view on the screen, and Odin appeared anxious.

_Mrs. Hawthorne, did you love your husband? Could you describe the nature of your martial strife with the deceased? What was your relation with your husband? Do you know who might have killed him? _The reporters' questions all essentially were pointed to the same thing: _did you do it? _

Becky's face was tired, but she scowled impressively at the reporters. "No comment," she said above the raucous crowd, weeding through them to enter a car that was waiting for her.

And Odin's face was glowing with an energy that Hermione had never seen before in him.

"She's innocent," he said promptly as soon as other news came up on the telly. "She's innocent, but they're all out to get her."

"What do you mean? How would _you _know?" Hermione asked, not sure what on earth was happening.

"I just _know _it." And he sighed. "I just know it."

"Go on," Hermione replied with a teasingly scornful laugh, "what concern is it of ours, anyway? It said that the accident took place in the United States, and the only reason BBC covered it is because he crashed into one of the old Gallows Trees that they hung witches on. You know how the media loves to dredge up old history and get all their experts to analyze it."

"I know. It took place in a suburb of Salem, Massachusetts."

She examined him quizzically. He'd dropped the bag of chips and he was sitting up; she could feel his very nerves tingling with energy.

"Well," she said, and paused. "Are...are you okay?"

"Wonderful! Absolutely chipper! Better than I've felt in years!"

So saying, he stood up, taking Hermione's hand to yank her up too.

"Come with me to Massachusetts, Hermione, my dear...heaven knows, if she rejects me, I'll be needing of a friend's shoulder to cry on."

"What on _earth?_" exclaimed Hermione, struggling to keep her balance. In response, Odin wrapped his arms around her in a grand embrace. "Odin, are you quite all right?"

"I'm not mad, if that's what you're thinking," Odin replied, his tone boisterous and jovial, "I'm...I'm just..."

"You're just _what?_" Hermione asked seriously.

"Oh...I'm not sure yet, but I've got a most definite hunch!" Odin insisted. "Do come with me, Hermione. It'll be the first case I investigate for my new job. Please?"

_I do wonder why Salem keeps cropping up in my life_, Hermione wondered, thinking immediately of Snape. _I mean, I probably won't find him, but if I did...that'd be grand, wouldn't it?_

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

"This isn't happening," Becky whispered as she got into Daisy's tiny little car, sitting in the backseat next to Severus.

"It is, honey, it is," the large woman at the wheel replied, shaking her head as she pulled out of the police department's parking lot. "We've just got to deal with it the best we can."

"We came to file a restraining order...not to identify my husband's charred corpse!" continued Becky, burying her face in her hands. She began to sob, and Severus gently gave her a one-armed hug.

"It's okay," he whispered, though he knew very _very _well that this was not the case. "It's okay."

Indeed, he felt immensely sick, now that everyone knew what had happened to Grover.

Severus kept replaying his angry, volatile thoughts against Grover—_I wish his brakes would give in, and he'd crash and die—_and bemoaned what a fool he'd been. He'd hurt people with accidental magic before—Petunia Evans in particular—but never killed anybody.

_I never really learned to control it. I'm not fit to call myself a wizard, am I? _

He was especially peeved because he knew the police's primary suspect was Becky. _A gentle woman who's shown me more kindness in a few months than most people from my own world would show me in years. _

Of course, he exempted Hermione from this list, because she was nothing more than a silly little girl who fancied herself to be in love with him.

_Maybe not so little_, he thought, reminiscing as to how she looked in her bathing suit that glorious summer night when they'd gone swimming together. _Her knockers were plumb spilling out. _

But then he closed his mind to Hermione Granger and focused on the problem at hand.

_I'm more than certain that I'm responsible for yet another human being's death—a defenseless Muggle's, no less—and this time I don't even have the justification of being a double-agent to take the blame. This was purely murder—justified only by the fact that he was a right bastard. And heaven knows, if that's reason enough to kill someone, then I'd have been dead a hundred times by now. _

He wasn't sure what to do. _Should I give myself up...and let the Muggles have their way with me? Or just let the justice system take its due course and be passive?_

Morally, he knew he ought to do the right thing and give himself up. _But then Becky and Thomas would be fairly alone_, he reminded himself. _I have a duty to them. They mustn't suffer. And Thomas has got to have a better life than I ever had. _

Then, it occurred to him that the police might well consider him rather high-up on the suspect list.

_I doubt they'll like my story, once they start snooping around Becky's life for a motive and opportunity. Concerned friend indeed, they'll think of me, more like Friend With Benefits if nothing else. They...they won't understand that I'm not that way. If I were to have intimate relations with a woman, it would be honorably, not on the sly. _

This made him depressed, and he patted Becky's shoulder.

_Poor Becky indeed. I wonder what she'd think if she knew..._

Then he realized, with enormous chagrin—_I'm the Jean Valjean figure, here. _

So, he decided that the greatest moral thing to do would be to give himself up as the murderer. _Ultimately, that's the right thing. That's the only thing. Oh! If only the strength to do this was easy to assume!_

He passed a fitful night indeed, full of dreams: dreams of Becky crying and cursing and spitting on him for having left her to suffer life as a prostitute, like Fantine. Dreams of little Thomas growing up in a household where he was hated, like Cosette and Tom Riddle. And, dreams of Hermione, who strangely seemed to take on the role of Eponine, telling him to do what he thought to be the right thing—nothing more, nothing less.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .


	27. On Karma and Madmen

_Disclaimer: I'm not JKR. Okay? Okay._

**Chapter 27**

Severus awoke, determined to give himself up--if the police did decide that it was murder and came to investigate Becky. In the meantime, he would wait until it was absolutely necessary. He couldn't give himself up if it was worthless, if they decided that there was nobody with motive _and _opportunity and left the case unsolved and unpunished. This option seemed likely--heaven knows, Grover wasn't someone they intended to waste a lot of time investigating the death of. He had a little bit of a record, from what the men at the police station had said: disruptions of the peace, a few mentions of assault. Nothing that was entirely criminal, nothing that had kept him in prison for more than a few days, but it was more than Becky had.

Becky, as Severus had affirmed via public record, was squeaky-clean, the only record of her in the court being a lawsuit against a contractor who had broken her window, winning a settlement of a few thousand dollars. So, she was generally in the good books.

The morning after they'd received the awful news, Severus was pottering about Huckleberry House, wondering if, at the end of this nightmare, he'd still be living here.

_Will I be in prison? Dead? And, if I'm dead...where?_

This was something he'd been thinking a lot about, on and off, since he realized he didn't want anything further to do with 'Lily'.

_I've...tried to atone for everything I've done wrong in my life_, he reasoned, pouring himself some coffee. He wondered briefly who had made it; certainly not him. Possibly Daisy. He didn't think it was Becky. The ladies still were residing in the House, if only because Becky's home didn't have a guest bedroom, and also because she really didn't want to go home. She didn't want to deal with the memories.

_I ought to devise a comprehensive list of everything I've done wrong and weigh it against everything I've done right..._he considered, though even without thinking, he was aware that the list of 'wrongs' would be infinitely more than 'rights'.

He walked around the kitchen with his coffee, inhaling its aroma and feeling strangely lonely. _Where is the maker of this coffee? _he wondered, and then he breezily imagined Hermione waltzing into the room, with a smile and a sly comment about how he'd showered using the soap she'd sent him.

He remembered too many breakfasts that he'd had with her these days, when he was alone. While she hadn't shared his life intimately for very long, she'd had enough of an impact that he missed her at random moments.

_She wanted to become 'pen-pals', _he thought with a whimsical smile, _I wonder if that'd be something to add to the 'right' list, if I responded? How many positive karma points do I get for simply giving another person happiness? And would it truly be something that would give her happiness? Did she say it just to be polite? _

He walked into the study to find the old mail, so that he might be able to re-read her letter and therefore better judge whether she was just being nice or if she actually cared...

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

In the meantime, Odin and Hermione were arriving in the Gen. Edward Lawrence Logan International Airport of Boston, bleary-eyed after an intense red-eye Atlantic Crossing. Hermione had a guilty snake in her gut, twisting and writhing as she thought about how she'd skipped town, leaving a simple note on the kitchen table for her parents saying that she was going on a brief trip to the U.S. with Odin, and she'd back soon. However, she would call and let them know she was safe...soon.

"Say we get a hotel?" she suggested to Odin with a yawn. "Besides, what time is it here?"

"No time!" exclaimed Odin, who'd had maybe seven cups of coffee on the flight over the Atlantic, and only a few hours' sleep, "There should be a car waiting for us. Look for 'Enterprise Rental Services,' if you would?"

"I'm tired," Hermione whined, trudging along with her carry-on satchel behind her friend. She was already regretting this trip, as she looked around the airport and out the windows.

_The view from this Massachusetts Airport doesn't look any different from England Heathrow_, she decided bleakly, seeing nothing but concrete, concrete, concrete, with a little bit of grass to define the place where the concrete met the concrete-looking sky.

"Don't be a spoilsport, my dear, come on." Odin was indefatigable ever since he'd seen that Becky Hawthorne on television, and Hermione suspected that he had fanatically fallen for the woman. She was actually rather convinced that she'd crossed the Atlantic with a man who was as close to madness as she'd ever found.

But, she was here now, and she was too tired to try and figure out what else to do, so she just trotted behind him.

Sooner than later, they were installed in a cheap little car, and they were on their way to who knows where.

"Can't we at least stop for...whatever meal we should be getting? What time is it again?" she asked sleepily, her eyes closed while she sat in shotgun.

"It's only seven in the morning. And yes, I suppose we could grab a cuppa."

When they didn't stop for what felt like seven miles, Hermione opened her eyes. "Aren't we going to stop?"

"Let's wait until we get to Salem, ma cherie. It's not awfully far."

Hermione opened her eyes to look for a street sign, and was pleasantly surprised to see that Odin's judgment of 'not awfully far' was fairly accurate--they were five miles away. She'd been half expecting it to be a few hundred.

Seeing the name of the city on the sign, though, helped Hermione come to the realization that...indeed...she was close to Snape again.

And her heart, despite the circumstances, swelled.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .


	28. On Skipping Out and Looking In

It sucks that I have to have a disclaimer. Ok. I don't own Harry Potter. I'm not j.k. (just kidding) about the fact that I'm not J.K. Rowling. I am not affiliated with Warner Bros. nor do I make any claim to be. Fan writing FAN fiction. Enough said.

I really do just update this for the hell of it. Much love to Escoger for being such a sport and listening to me talk about this story.

**Intellectually Correct**

**Chapter 28**

As Odin and Hermione sat at an IHOP in Salem, marveling over the vast number of combinations they could get on their breakfasts, an owl tapped upon the window next to them. The bird was not as disheveled-looking as it had been before, but Hermione recognized it to be Snape's nonetheless, and she hastily abandoned Odin to retrieve the letter from its talons.  
_  
Miss Granger:_

_Doing well is not necessarily equivocal to being busy, and at the moment it means quite the opposite. I'd much prefer to be not busy and thus be doing better than I am now. But this is besides the point.  
_

_I think the information you sent is satisfactory. As to your deduction that I might be in Massachusetts-you're quite wrong, please do send the other requested lists, as well as those in Vancouver (Canada)._

_My 'offering', I confess, was meant far from an apology, but take its meaning as you wish, and, indeed, at this point if you would be obliged to consider it an apology, you may. I hereby give you the 'good-riddance' you seem to desire_, _as well, and that I give freely. And my giving of it is as far from the 'good-will' of my 'heart' as Timbuktu is to New York City. _

_No need to beg forgiveness of me; I admit to having a reputation for withholding mercy, but I know the value of forgiveness so much that when it is contritely asked for, I cannot in good conscience withhold it._

_Your gift is...refreshing, in every sense of the word._

_I must object to using the term 'pen pals_'_; it brings to mind brutally chipper Americans who are so desperate for someone in a foreign country to like them that they'll start a conversation with you in the loo! For no reason at all except to be an epitomical nuisance! _

_And you mustn't look down upon Fantine. I caught her myself._

_-S.S._

"And now I've got a bit of bacon for you, my dear," Hermione cooed as she smiled over the letter, stroking the bedraggled bird. It was so cute how obvious Snape was on paper, despite how inscrutable he could be in person. His little observations on forgiveness were about as sentimental as he got, and she thought it was marvelous to see it-plus, she was charmed by how gruff and indirect the rest of his letter was after that. Despite this, and despite the fact that Snape didn't like to answer her questions, he'd still bestowed upon her some small praise: "Refreshing, in every sense of the word."

Her heart soared. Snape liked her shampoo! She couldn't have felt prouder, though she hurriedly whisked under her mental carpet the fact that she'd almost gone out and bought some commercial shampoo instead of brewing it herself.

And that wasn't all! Snape also...albeit indirectly...agreed to be her pen-pal. On that note-hey, he'd written back in the first place! As she decided in retrospect, she honestly wouldn't have been too surprised if he had refused to write back to her after having got his information.

Then again, was he just writing back _because _he needed _more_ information? He _was _requesting that she send the "other requested lists"...was that just bluffing on his part, so she couldn't positively identify his location, or was he telling the truth?

"What are you reading, _ma cherie?_" came the voice of Odin from behind her, and Hermione raised her head.

"A letter," she admitted, and debated with herself as to whether she should show him or not.

"Will this be a _secret _letter?" asked Odin as he knealt beside her, teasing but also impatient. "Or one you would not wish to not share with me?"

"What a wordy sentence," Hermione stated, shrugging. "Here, you can read it."

"I have no use for letters that are not secret!" Here Odin stood, shaking his rounded shoulders out proudly and leaning a little bit backward. "I care only for mysteries! Namely, the mystery of that beautiful Becky Hawthorne!"

"I can't believe that you think you've fallen in love with her," Hermione replied, standing up and stalking towards the car while naming an argument that she'd been trying to shove through Odin's thick head for quite some time since the day before. "I really do think it's just...what you'd call a fancy, a crush."

"It is _not!_" Odin replied, following but getting truly beet-faced with his denial. "Nor is it _lust_, nor is it a _sudden passion_, nor do I have some unexplainable attraction for her."

"It seems fairly unexplainable to me," Hermione grumbled in return, getting into the passenger's seat of the car. "But I ought to mention...did you pay for our meal or did we just skip out?"

"Skipped," Odin confessed, turning his attention to leaping into the car and revving the engine. "Won't happen again, I promise. Tragic old habit from when I didn't have a cent."

"I'm beginning to _miss _being your girlfriend." On that sarcastic note, they left the parking-lot and headed towards the highway.

_. . ._ x . . . X . . . x . . .

"Amanda Bright, the attorney, will be here in just a few minutes. Would you like a cheese danish?" Daisy suggested, carrying a plate over to where Snape stood by the open window, pensively looking out onto the Huckleberry bushes and front lawn. "Such a pretty day to open the windows. And I guess this place could be aired out; it's a little musty."

Not saying anything, Snape settled down onto the stiff cushion of the window-seat, remembering all too vividly (as his eyes cast upon the phonograph in the nearby corner) that humiliating day that he had imagined 'Lily' in that unbecoming manner in this very room. Unfortunately, his lower member didn't think it appropriate to remember anything but how to react when thinking about a half-naked Lily, and it poked insistently against the front of his trousers.

In the ensuing embarrassment, Snape turned to look out the window again, which was fortunate given that Daisy was staring in his direction. Fortunately, she seemed to be gazing more at his face than what hid below his belt.

"Becky's in the shower," she continued, "and little Thomas is asleep. Do you normally wake this early?"

He nodded, feeling a little queasy. He'd suddenly had an image of Granger in his mind, asking him that question, and he had to shake away the fanciful notion. _No, I can't do to Granger what I did to Lily. I ruined Lily for myself in the domain of my own mind. I couldn't ever look at her again, much less become her friend again. I can't disrespect Granger in that way.  
_

It was funny, though, that he was thinking of Hermione Granger so often now. Though he sensed that he couldn't talk to her in the way he'd talked to 'Lily'; it just wasn't right. _She didn't leave me, like Lily did, after all. She didn't betray me, like Lily did, after all. I left Hermione, I betrayed Hermione. Maybe that is why she is not dead to me.  
_

Daisy was still rambling on in a jovial sort of way.

"I don't know who you remind me of...perhaps you're a little like my grandfather. Very taciturn until you got to know him."

There was nothing more Snape hated than to be compared to anybody. How could _he_, such an extraordinarily wretched person who tended to have the world's sewage dumped at his feet every day, be considered _like _anybody else?

"But there was one thing he liked to tell me, when he was getting on," Daisy continued, approaching Severus in a too-friendly way that made him uncomfortable. "He liked to emphasize the importance of one having _done _something. How it was the _doing _of something that put one in a different class from everyone who _didn't _do anything. And...oh dear, I'm getting a bit muddled...how the doing of _something_ was better to regret than the not doing of _anything._"

Snape just nodded, feeling acutely aware that somehow Daisy was reading him very well.

"Apparently, as I found out much later, he was from the South and had been on the police force there in his youth. There had been some terrible atrocities against minorities in his neighborhood that he regretted having never acted against. I don't know all the details, though I have been doing some research into old records and such."

"Why are you telling me this?" Snape asked suddenly, turning his bitter eyes towards the ground.

"I don't know," Daisy said. "I just supposed you might be in need of some encouragement."

Saying nothing, Severus shivered a little and folded up on the window-seat like an accordion.

"Why did you think that?"

The answer was startling.

"Are you _certain _that you're not...affectionate of Becky?"

"What?" He looked at her as she squeezed her bulk into a chair that looked altogether too small. "No, I'm really not. That's ridiculous."

"Are you _certain_?" the woman asked, persistent. "I could swear, you act like a man brooding in love."

He shuddered at the thought. _I've always been in love, really_, he thought. _It's like that one really scratchy record from the cabinet, which goes..."I've been in love more than anybody else has, I guess..." _

As he fell into a woolgathering mode, Daisy continued, "I'm curious. Do tell me. I shan't reveal it to her...or him..."

"_Him?_" spat Snape, a bit aghast.

"Sorry, I'm so sorry," Daisy replied fully apologetic. "One never knows these days which way a stranger might lean."

"Never mind," Snape replied unhappily.

"So, tell me about her," Daisy requested. "You're certain it's not Becky?"

"Becky is a kind, considerate soul, who deserves better than what she got out of her husband...but I doubt that I could muster true passion for her. I'm not what she deserves, at any rate," Snape noted, not sure if this would make him sound like he _was _in love with Becky.

"Then for whom do you have passion?"

_Lily. Always Lily_, Snape thought, but in the back of his mind he pictured a certain other Muggle-born Gryffindor.

"May I be honest?" he asked, changing the subject completely. "I have other things to do."

Daisy's smile was sweet, if not a little disappointed. "Of course, of course."

Standing and striding out of the room, he managed to say, "Thanks for the coffee."

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

Hey, if you want to, do check out my new page: Anachronistic Anglophile. There's lots of stuff there. I just update this story here due to its popularity.

Also, I have a new writing blog that I'm looking for contributors to join. Go to www(dot)presumingliteracy(dot)com and check it out!

* * *

_Do review. This story may be rubbish, but it's rather entertaining rubbish. _


	29. On Conflicts and Resoluteness

_Disclaimer: I'm not JKR. Okay? Okay._

**Intellectually Correct**

**Chapter 29**

"There's a certain ambiance to New England, I think, _ma cherie_," observed Odin with an esctatic smile. They were driving north on the MA-107 into Salem, and Hermione was finally awake.

"There is the fog, of course (a fog not much comparable to that off the Thames, I must strongly insist!), but I think it is more or less caused by the appearance of these little wooden houses of blue and white."

"They are rather quaint," agreed Hermione dryly, though she didn't often give architecture much more importance.

"So distinctly _American_," Odin continued to chatter, "so _beachy_. So _simple. _So universal to this great western country."

"Perhaps," agreed Hermione again, closing her eyes.

"Then again...is it this remarkable view that you are entranced by, my dear, or is it that you are falling asleep with your nose pressed against the glass?"

The latter was precisely what Hermione was doing, out of disinclination to reveal to Odin how little she was listening to him prattle.

"Oh, I was admiring the green of everything," Hermione quickly covered, "it feels like it could be Ireland."

"Ah," Odin exclaimed in delight, "_tharr_ eis'uh bee-yew-t'ful countrry for'yeh!"

"Oh, come off it!" Hermione giggled a little at his affected accent. She remembered with an instant how it felt to have a crush on the magnificent Odin.

But then again, after a moment, she didn't feel anything anymore.

They continued driving, Hermione's thoughts wandering to the point that she looked plaintively at every bicyclist and pedestrian, willing, wanting, waiting to see a certain dark-haired ex-professor of hers...

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

_I've got to pull a Valjean_, Snape thought as he paced around his bedroom. _I can still be honorable if I go to the police and confess it all. I can still protect Becky and Thomas if I escape before they can put me in jail. But how to go about it? And would Becky and Thomas, who think they are in no real danger, be willing to put up with my company enough to let me protect them?_

He felt queasiness in his stomach for which he scorned himself.

_What am I nervous about, ex-spy that I am? I've been in danger of my life before; at the very worst, all they could do to me if they DO capture me is deport me back to England for incarceration..._

He shivered. _But if the wizarding system gets a hold of me in England...quite a different story, that._

At that point, he wasn't sure what he intended to decide. He was so forlorn, so lost, so unhappy.

He perceived a knock upon the door, and he opened it, and smiled faintly.

"Hello, my dear," he whispered, wary of any eavesdroppers that might be nearby.

"Hello, my dear," echoed 'Lily', sweeping into the room, tenseness in her 'voice'. "I realize I shouldn't be here. I don't want to be here. Severus..."

He was walking towards her, to embrace her, to let her suck his lips and tongue, to find warmth in the draft of air that he, with his mind, had crafted into his imaginary woman. She shied away like a spooked horse, careful and pained.

"Severus, I'm aware that you're conflicted once again. Just like you're conflicted about me and that Granger girl, you're conflicted about this decision."

"What?" All of a sudden, it had become clear to him, just by putting it into the context that she had, that he was not conflicted at all. His plan was justifiable, rational, and pretty much his only option. _What other choice do I have, but to pull a Valjean? I should never have been in doubt. I was an idiot to doubt this plan._

"It's all right, because we're all conflicted about some things," Lily said, sighing and 'sitting' upon his bed. Snape felt himself fondly remembering their numerous trysts under its bedclothes and sighing in response.

"Are you conflicted?" Severus asked, not willing to extend the energy to put her right about the status of his previous conflict of decision-making concerning his future actions. _I'll just let her talk. I want to look at her undisturbed._

"About some things, yes," Lily admitted, 'patting' the bed next to her, inviting him to sit with her. He refused with a shake of his head, and she shook her head in gentle reply, looking at the floor. "Perhaps I shall tell you, sometime, but not now. Not until you're more centered. Not until you're stable. Only then can I truly be capable of...telling you."

"Oh well," Snape replied, feeling strangely blissful. _What does it matter what happens to the people around me? What does it matter what happens to me, either? Nothing really matters. Anyone could see that. Nothing...really...matters...Lily's...here..._

"Here."

Lily 'took' his hand and led him out of the room, down the staircase. Rationally, Snape wondered whether or not Daisy or Becky would think him a bit loony, walking with his left hand outstretched as he grasped the hand of his invisible woman, but fortunately they didn't run into either of them while walking towards the study.

"Why are we coming down here?" Snape asked, not that he really cared about Becky or Daisy or whether or not Lily had a purpose in asking him downstairs.

"I'll have to compel you to do this, I think," Lily 'said' cryptically. Snape watched with some amusement as the imaginary woman 'shut' the doors and began to peruse the book-cases.

After a quarter-hour of searching, during which time Snape also started pulling out a stack of books, she 'placed' a worn paper pamphlet on the desk next to his pile.

"It's from 1988, and a bit faded, but I think this visitor's guide should give us the information that we need," Lily 'said', smiling sadly. "After all, how often do they move a police station?"

"Pweattteeeee!" came a voice, and 'Lily' 'disappeared' in a cloud of pink, red, and green mist.

"Hi, Thomas," Snape said when his heartbeat slowed. "Where's your mummy?"

"Gaga," the little boy explained wistfully, scampering away to the kitchen, from where Severus heard female voices resonate.

Shaking his head, which was starting to ache, Severus turned away. After ascertaining that Becky and Daisy were safely occupied at the back of the house, he would dispatch to the police station, to turn himself in...and make a daring escape.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

"Nothing's open this early, Odin," Hermione insisted with an aggrieved sigh.

"That is what you think, _ma cherie_, because _you _are not the soon-to-be-world-famous-traveling-detective!"

There was no arguing with him about his newest aspiration, Hermione had discovered long ago, but she could at least attempt to prove his incorrigible logic faulty.

"Since when do soon-to-be-world-famous-traveling-detectives have any authority to barge into unsuspecting visitor-centers and museums that won't open until ten o'clock, anyhow?"

"None whatsoever. Detectives who are established in their field don't either, didn't you know? But it makes a smashing film, to break into-"

"-I do hope we're not breaking into _an-y-thing_-" Hermione inputted.

"-an old abandoned warehouse by the sea (where they have no place to be) on a search for narcotics."

"On that note, let me amend what I said: We're neither hypothetically breaking into an old abandoned warehouse _nor_ on the search for narcotics!" Hermione insisted. "All we want, by my recollection, is a bloody map!"

"Well, what do you suggest we do then, eh?" Odin said with a frown. "Just drive about until we come across something? A grocery, perhaps? A pie shop?"

"I don't think they'd sell pies at shops in the United States, Odin, save for perhaps as a novelty," commented Hermione, feeling as though she were scolding a three-year-old.

"Then what about a pharmacy? Pharmacies ought to be open at all hours, for when people have an emergency or whatnot," Odin continued.

"If we see one, we'll stop," Hermione conceded.

It was then that she got an idea.

"What about the police station? They've simply got to be open at all hours. And I'm sure they'll be able to point us to wherever it is you need to go, Odin."

"That's the thing," Odin said, wistful. "The police station is the _where_ that we need to go."

"Oh bloody wonderful," Hermione said, feeling haggard. "So what do you want to do, Mr. Difficult?"

"Drive fast?" Odin asked. "Then they'll catch me and give me a notice?"

Hermione could not help but laugh. "Logical, intriguing, and it would work...except for the fact that even if you're a soon-to-be-world-famous-detective, you are not above the law, Odin. They won't exempt you the fine because you want to do their work for them."

"True, too true," he agreed.

And so, they continued to cruise around aimlessly, Hermione once more leaning against the window in an attempt to sleep and Odin driving steadily, until he thought Hermione was asleep and then he'd start to swerve a bit until Hermione shouted at him to stop trying to get them killed.

After all, she was _so _close to Snape. It'd be wretched if she died now!

_  
_

"So why were you kicked off Mars?" 

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

Hey, if you want to, do check out my new page: Anachronistic Anglophile. There's lots of stuff there. I just update this story here due to its popularity.

Also, I have a new writing blog that I'm looking for contributors to join. Go to www(dot)presumingliteracy(dot)com and check it out!

* * *

_Do review. Despite what you very kind reviewers seem to think, I daresay this really is rubbish, of the comic kind.  
_


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